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Letters  to  Edward 


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Letters  to  Edward 


By 
MALCOLM  JAMES  McLEOD 

Minister  of  Collegiate  Church  of  St.  Nicholas, 
New  York  City 


NEW  YORK   CHICAGO   TORONTO 

Fleming   H.  Revell  Company 
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Copyright,  1913,  by 
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Foreword 

THESE  letters  are  not  imaginary.  It  was 
never  dreamed  when  originally  written  that 
they  would  ever  appear  in  book  form.  And 
this  has  necessitated  a  few  minor  changes — 
changes  in  names  and  places  and  dates.  Some 
sentences  needed  filing  down  a  little  and  some 
polishing  up.  Of  course  much  material  had  to 
be  stricken  out  altogether  as  being  too  per- 
sonal. Otherwise  they  are  intact.  They  are 
substantially  unchanged.  They  make  no  claim 
whatever  to  any  literary  merit ;  they  are  pub- 
lished for  one  reason  solely,  viz.,  that  it  was 
Edward's  last  request. 


[5] 

152S026 


A    Call    to    California 


New  York  City,  March  4, 
MY  DEAR  EDWARD  : 

I  am  so  sorry  to  hear  that  the  doctors 
have  ordered  you  off.  My,  how  I  shall  miss 
you !  I  do  not  see  what  I  am  going  to  do. 
Keally  life  won't  be  the  same. 

How  can  I  get  on  without  those  chats  on  the 
links  ?  We  ministers  have  heard  so  much  at 
the  Board  rooms  about  ministers'  blue  Mondays, 
but  Mondays  of  late  years  have  been  my  bright 
days.  It  seemed  when  we  were  nearing  that 
eighteenth  hole,  and  the  sun  was  in  my  eyes  so 
that  I  could  not  tell  whether  or  not  I  had 
topped  as  usual  into  that  horrid  bunker  where  I 
generally  landed — it  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  were 
already  looking  forward  to  next  week,  and  our 
regular  golfing  tryst  again.  Indeed  I  felt  as  if  it 
could  not  come  fast  enough.  Only  another  Mon- 
day meant  another  Sunday,  and  my,  how  quickly 
they  turn  up !  Does  not  the  pace  sometimes 
appal  you  ?  I  sympathize  with  the  old  parson 
who  said  that  the  tightest  place  he  was  ever  in. 
was  between  two  Sundays.  Why,  here  it  is 


Letters    to    Edward 


Thursday  already,  and  I  haven't  as  yet  even  a 
text.  My  wife  has  often  told  me  that  she  fears 
I  am  living  for  Mondays  rather  than  Sundays, 
and  that  the  driving  tee  is  my  pulpit.  My,  my, 
my,  but  how  I  shall  miss  you,  dear  boy ! 

But  I  am  so  delighted  since  you  have  to 
go  to  California  that  you  received  such  a 
unanimous  call.  No,  it  was  not  my  recommen- 
dation. It  was  your  own  good  solid  worth.  I 
know  the  church  well,  have  often  preached  in 
it,  and  they  are  a  lovely  people.  Santa  Flora 
is  about  fifty  miles  or  so  from  Los  Angeles  and 
it  is  a  charming  place.  I  will  tell  you  all  about 
it  later  on.  The  congregation  will  welcome 
you  with  open  arms.  You  see  I  know  the 
whole  lay  of  the  land  out  there.  I  know  the 
personnel  of  the  church  quite  intimately.  Many 
of  them  are  among  my  warm  friends.  Much 
as  I  would  like  I  cannot  dissuade  you  from  your 
decision.  You  know  I  wanted  you  to  go  even 
before  the  doctors  gave  their  verdict.  I  know 
you  are  doing  the  wise  thing.  I  know  you  are 
doing  the  right  thing.  I  believe  the  outdoor  life 
will  bring  you  back  all  O.  K.  Only  do  not  let  the 
church  work  worry  you.  Your  first  duty  is  to 
[8] 


A    Call    to    California 

yourself.  Give  them  canned  fruit  for  quite  a 
while.  You  see  the  fresh  article  is  plentiful 
out  there  and  the  other  kind  will  be  a  change. 
I  would  not  think  of  writing  a  new  sermon  for 
at  least  a  year.  They  need  never  know.  And 
do  just  as  little  visiting  as  the  law  allows.  I 
am  sorry  you  have  to  pass  muster  as  a  fairly 
well  man,  but  then  it  seems  that  has  to  be.  I 
shall  think  of  you  every  hour  of  the  day  in  my 
study,  and  of  course  I  shall  be  always  think- 
ing of  you  in  the  bunkers  at  Garden  City  and 
Apavvamis.  I  will  write  you  regularly  about 
the  work  here.  You  see  I  am  having  my 
third  anniversary  next  month.  At  your  advice 
I  came  to  this  awful  city  just  three  years  ago. 
Dear,  dear,  how  the  time  flies !  So  I  will  tell  you 
everything.  And  I  want  you  to  do  the  same. 
Tell  me  all  about  yourself,  your  cough,  your 
appetite,  your  church,  your  choir,  your  horse- 
back riding,  your  flirtations,  your  reading — 
everything.  "We  can  still  keep  up  some  fine, 
long  distance,  continental  chats.  And  believe 
me  as  ever  yours  most  faithfully, 

MILCOLUMBUS. 

[9] 


New  York  City,  Monday,  April  3,  1912. 
MY  DEAR  EDWARD  : 

I've  been  longing  for  your  letter  and  to 
know  your  first  impressions.  And  here  it  is. 
I  cannot  tell  you  how  delighted  I  am  that  you 
are  pleased  with  everything.  I  knew  they 
would  give  you  a  royal  welcome,  but  I  must 
confess  I  was  not  quite  prepared  for  such 
warmth  and  heartiness.  They  seem  to  have 
outdone  themselves.  No,  no,  they  are  not 
doing  it  for  my  sake.  I  know  them  too  well 
for  that.  They  are  just  going  to  take  you  right 
into  their  hearts  and  love  you  from  the  start. 
But  aren't  these  receptions  awful  things?  I 
certainly  do  dread  them ;  would  much  rather 
take  a  whipping  any  day.  One  hasn't  nearly 
as  much  of  that  sort  of  thing  here  in  the  East. 
I  think  in  all  my  experience  in  California  there 
was  not  a  week  when  we  did  not  have  a  social 
gathering  in  the  church  of  some  kind  or  other. 
It  was  a  pink  tea  or  a  tamale  dinner  or  a  cafe- 
teria supper  or  something.  I  tried  to  go  to 
most  of  them  at  first  but  at  last  had  to  give  up 
[10] 


First    Impressions 


in  sheer  dyspeptic  despair.  And  that  annual 
reception  to  the  pastor  and  his  good  wife  was  a 
real  bugaboo.  To  stand  up  and  shake  hands 
with  five  hundred  people  in  a  row,  and  keep  a 
steady  smile  on  from  7  : 30  to  10  : 00  is  enough 
to  get  one's  face  permanently  distorted. 

You  spoke  of  Mrs.  Winthrop.  "Well,  go  guard- 
edly there.  I  have  been  told  that  she  is  dan- 
gerous. I  will  write  you  about  some  of  these 
things  later  on.  Isn't  the  building  a  beauty  ? 
How  did  you  like  the  organ  ?  And  the  vested 
choir  ?  I  do  not  wonder  at  your  having  felt  like 
a  fish  in  a  millinery  store  when  you  got  into  the 
gown.  The  first  time  I  put  one  on.  I  almost 
laughed  out  in  the  middle  of  the  long  prayer. 
Somehow  a  funny  memory  flashed.  I  thought 
of  a  dream  I  once  had.  But  you  will  get  used  to 
it.  And  the  prayer-meeting!  Isn't  it  a  real 
joy  ?  Is  there  anything  that  cheers  a  minister's 
heart  like  a  good  prayer-meeting  ?  If  our  peo- 
ple fully  realized  that,  I  think  they  would  be 
more  loyal  to  it.  I  have  always  been  in  the 
habit,  in  all  the  churches  it  has  been  my  privi- 
lege to  serve,  of  running  the  prayer-meeting  on 
the  three  minute  speaking  limit,  and  in  fact 
[11] 


Letters    to    Edward 


usually  advise  a  minute  less  in  prayer,  that  they 
can  pray  as  long  as  they  want  to  in  private — 
the  longer  indeed  the  better — but  that  in  pub- 
lic the  shorter  it  is  the  more  good  it  does ;  that 
two  minutes  is  long  enough.  Isn't  it  funny 
how  some  Christians  in  a  prayer-meeting  when 
they  get  up  to  talk  have  a  strange  idea  that 
it  is  necessary  for  them  to  make  an  oration,  or 
in  prayer  to  wander  over  both  hemispheres  and 
remember  every  poor  missionary  from  Sierra 
Leone  to  Kamchatka?  You  see  Santa  Flora, 
like  every  other  place  I  have  ever  known  any- 
thing about,  has  its  few  pious  old  fogies  who 
need  bottling  up.  They  will  kill  any  meeting. 
I  really  think  that  one  of  the  most  amusing 
stories  I  ever  heard  about  a  religious  meeting 
is  the  story  Grenfell  tells  when  he  first  went  to 
hear  Moody  in  London.  And  one  of  these  same 
old  drones  was  addressing  the  Throne  long  and 
loud,  when  the  big  evangelist  rose  and  said, 

"  "We  will  sing  hymn  No. while  the  good 

brother  finishes  his  prayer."  Grenfell  at  the 
time  was  not  a  Christian ;  in  fact  he  was  be- 
coming so  bored  by  the  length  of  the  petition 
that  he  was  just  about  to  reach  for  his  hat  and 
[12] 


First    Impressions 


leave  when  the  interruption  took  place,  and  the 
ridiculousness  of  the  thing  so  seized  him  that  he 
stayed.  And  that  wait  became  his  life  crisis. 
Do  you  know,  Edward,  I  sometimes  think  we 
can  come  to  God  through  the  gift  of  humor. 
I  heard  Joseph  Parker  preach  a  sermon  once  on 
the  twelve  gates  to  the  new  Jerusalem.  He 
mentioned  the  gates  of  intellect  and  sorrow  and 
sacrifice  and  service  and  hope  and  love.  I 
have  forgotten  the  others,  but  I  think  humor 
ought  to  have  been  one  of  them. 

But  the  best  part  of  your  letter  is  the  good 
news  that  you  are  standing  the  "  breaking  in  " 
so  well.  It  nearly  killed  me  here  in  New  York. 
I  hate  these  late  dinners  as  I  hate  his  Unholi- 
ness.  Going  out  to  a  swell  dinner  at  8  : 30  is  not 
in  my  line.  I  would  a  heap  rather  go  to  bed. 
I  was  at  the  Waldorf  last  night.  We  sat  down 
at  exactly  9 :  00  and  rose  at  11 : 15.  There 
were  twenty  in  the  party  and  twelve  courses 
and  four  kinds  of  wine.  The  dinner,  I  under- 
stand, was  $7.00  a  plate,  but  I  could  not  help 
noting  how  little  was  eaten — on  my  side  of  the 
board  at  least.  The  guests  just  nibbled.  The 
food,  I  presume,  was  thrown  away.  Oh,  the 
[13] 


Letters    to    Edward 


criminal  waste  of  it,  with  little  children  all 
about  us  hungry !  But  more  of  that  anon.  I 
was  really  worrying  quite  a  little  over  the 
receptions  and  attentions  you  will  be  receiv- 
ing. But  the  encouraging  news  that  the  cough 
is  better,  and  that  you  are  eating  well,  and 
enjoying  the  horseback  riding,  and  the  out- 
door sleeping,  is  certainly  cheering.  Keep  it 
up.  Stay  out  all  you  can.  Sleep  outside  even 
if  it  pours.  I  used  to  wake  up  in  the  morning 
with  my  down  quilt  wet  from  the  spray  beat- 
ing in  on  the  railing  of  the  loggia.  Do  not 
take  one  grain  of  medicine.  Paying  doctors 
for  your  trouble  is  just  burning  your  money. 
They  cannot  do  you  one  bit  of  good.  Live  in 
the  open.  Get  the  smell  of  the  soil  into  your 
lungs.  Eat  all  you  can  of  good  simple  food 
and  give  doctor  and  druggist  the  go  by.  In  my 
next  I  will  tell  you  a  little  about  myself.  So 
meanwhile  believe  me  ever  most  faithfully 
yours,  MILCOLUMBUS. 


[14] 


Some  New  York  Experiences 


Tuesday,  April  25,  1912. 
MY  DEAR  EDWARD  : 

I  did  not  get  your  letter  last  week  and 
so  I  am  a  wee  bit  disappointed.  I  have  been 
pegging  away  all  the  morning  on  a  sermon  on 
the  little  word  "  not."  My  text  is  "Inasmuch 
as  ye  did  it  not,"  but  I'm  abbreviating  it  be- 
yond recognition,  you  see,  because  I  rather  like 
little  unpretentious  enterings.  People  do  not 
expect  so  much.  You  know  I  have  been  won- 
derfully impressed  of  late  with  how  much  there 
is  in  the  Bible  about  the  things  we  don't  do. 

Do  you  know  that  one  of  the  most  striking 
things  to  me  about  the  Judgment  Day  is  that 
this  is  going  to  be  the  surprise.  It  is  not  the 
criminals  and  thieves  and  murderers  who  are  go- 
ing to  be  on  the  left  hand,  but  those  who  did 
nothing.  I  think  we  ministers  are  a  little  lax 
in  telling  our  people  that  respectable  sin  is  the 
great  sin.  When  the  Master  wanted  a  sample 
of  real  iniquity  in  its  scarlet  distinctness,  He 
did  not  go  to  the  saloon  or  the  slum  or  the  ten- 
derloin. He  went  to  the  house  of  the  Pharisee. 
[15] 


Letters    to    Edward 


And  I  cannot  help  feeling  that  the  whole  in- 
tent of  the  parable  of  the  rich  man  and  Lazarus 
is  to  present  in  vivid  language  the  sin  of  a  use- 
less life.  Or  one  might  cite  the  fig  tree  illus- 
tration, or  the  story  of  the  talents,  or  of  Gallio, 
or  of  Meroz,  or  of  Laodicea,  or  the  attitude  of 
the  priest  and  Levite  in  the  Good  Samaritan 
episode,  or  indeed  any  one  of  half  a  hundred 
other  passages.  I  have  just  been  reading 
Amiel.  What  a  strange  genius  he  was  !  The 
letters  are  just  as  brilliant  as  they  can  be,  but 
I  get  so  impatient  with  him.  He  seems  to  have 
known  every  day  just  exactly  what  he  ought 
to  have  done  and  yet  he  never  did  it.  It  seems 
to  me  the  condemnation  he  must  have  heard 
when  he  woke  up  over  yonder  was  "  Inasmuch 
as  you  did  it  not."  And  as  for  Goethe !  "Well, 
I  know  how  you  almost  idolize  him,  but  as  for 
myself  I  can  never  excuse  his  selfishness.  To 
think  that  a  man  of  his  brilliant  equipment  and 
influence  could  witness  the  rise  and  fall  of  Na- 
poleon, the  French  Revolution  with  its  rivers 
of  blood,  could  hear  the  war  songs  of  Korner, 
could  watch  the  cruelties,  the  injustices,  the 
tyrannies  and  the  wrongs  all  about  him,  and 
[16] 


The    Sin    of    Indi ffe r e n c e 

yet  remain  aloof  to  the  last,  a  cold,  silent,  un- 
moved spectator — well,  I  simply  cannot  under- 
stand it.  There  is  not  a  line  in  anything  that 
Goethe  ever  wrote  to  indicate  that  he  cared  a 
straw  what  became  of  France  or  Germany  or 
Spain  or  England  or  Napoleon  or  the  French 
Revolution  or  anything  but  Goethe.  I  know 
it  is  a  fearful  sin  to  abuse  one's  gifts,  but  I 
think  it  is  almost  worse  to  lock  them  away. 
Because  sins  of  commission  are  not  infrequently 
the  results  of  drink  and  passion  and  sudden  at- 
tack and  heredity  and  good  red  rich  hot  blood, 
but  pride  and  selfishness  and  jealousy  and  envy, 
and  lack  of  sympathy,  and  coldness  and  uncon- 
cern, and  apartness  from  the  poor,  and  hypoc- 
risy are  calm,  studied,  deliberate  things,  and  so, 
I  take  it,  more  reprehensible. 

But  I  did  not  really  mean  when  I  began  this 
letter  to  give  you  a  brief  of  next  Sunday's  ser- 
mon. I  am  getting  along  fairly  well.  We  had 
twenty-seven  accessions  two  weeks  ago  and  that 
is  encouraging.  It  made  me  feel  real  hopeful. 
The  church,  I  really  think,  is  getting  into  shape. 
You  know  it  was  quite  run  down.  My  hon- 
ored and  sainted  predecessor  was  a  sick  man 
[17] 


Letters    to    Edward 


the  last  nine  months  of  his  life,  so  it  has  been 
practically  leaderless  for  about  two  years,  and 
meanwhile  lots  of  our  people  have  drifted 
around  to  other  places.  You  see  there  is  no 
church  loyalty  here  in  New  York — absolutely 
none.  The  church  is  the  man.  One  hears  of 
JDr.  Jowett's  church  and  Dr.  Jefferson's  church 
and  Dr.  Parkhurst's  church  and  Dr.  Burrell's 
church  and  Dr.  Eaton's  church.  Never  of  the 
Fifth  Avenue  Baptist  or  the  Fifth  Avenue  Pres- 
byterian or  the  Broadway  Tabernacle.  Denomi- 
national fences  mean  nothing  at  all,  for  which 
of  course,  as  you  well  know,  your  humble  serv- 
ant is  not  shedding  many  tears.  Denomina- 
tionalism,  I  take  it,  is  doomed.  I  am  con- 
vinced that  my  friend  Boynton  was  right  when 
he  said  that  in  seventy-five  years  there  will  be 
only  two  denominations  in  our  country,  Catho- 
lic and  Protestant.  But  the  churches  are  so 
fearfully  cold.  I  really  think  that  formality 
and  dignity  are  the  mountains  we  have  to  move 
here.  They  are  our  greatest  hindrances  to  real 
effective  work.  Why,  hardly  any  of  my  con- 
gregation know  each  other,  and  yet  they  are 
the  kindest,  loveliest  people  in  the  world.  One 
[18] 


Recognition  of  Friends  on  Earth 

of  the  pewholders  in  Doctor  B 's  church 

was  telling  me  last  week  of  a  brother  and  sis- 
ter who  sit  directly  in  front  of  them.  They 
did  not  know  their  names,  but  thought  of  course 
they  were  man  and  wife.  They  had  never  even 
bowed  to  each  other,  although  they  had  been 
occupying  these  same  seats  for  four  years,  and 
all  had  been  quite  regular  attendants.  Now 
what  do  you  think  of  that  for  cordiality  ? 
Think  of  sitting  for  four  consecutive  years 
every  Sunday  right  behind  people,  and  so  close 
to  them  that  you  could  almost  tell  what  brand 
of  soap  they  washed  with  that  morning,  and 
never  even  bowing,  and  if  that  is  not  enough  to 
make  one  stop  preaching  on  the  recognition  of 
friends  in  heaven — well,  I'll  give  it  up.  Indeed 
I  might  instance  my  own  case.  I  have  been 
living  for  the  past  three  years  in  an  apartment. 
There  are  thirty-six  families  in  the  house,  and 
in  all  this  time  I  have  never  spoken  to  a  single 
member.  In  New  York  here  we  get  so  dread- 
fully afraid  of  each  other.  "We  are  almost 
afraid  to  be  human.  We  are  almost  afraid  to 
be  decent. 

One  of  the  things  that  mortifies  me  most  my- 
[19] 


Letters    to    Edward 


self  is  the  inexcusable  habit  of  coming  late  to 
church.  Sometimes  when  I  step  out  on  the 
pulpit  on  Sunday  morning  I  really  think  there 
are  not  fifty  people  in  the  building,  although  it 
seats  twelve  hundred.  By  the  time  the  first 
anthem  is  finished  there  are  perhaps  two  hun- 
dred present.  Then  at  11 ;  20  maybe  five  hun- 
dred. And  at  11 :  30  the  church  is  fairly  well 
filled.  You  can  see  how  our  preliminary  exer- 
cises are  well-nigh  fruitless,  as  far  as  the  cul- 
ture of  any  devotional  spirit  is  concerned.  In 
fact  it  sometimes  so  disturbs  me  that  I  am  far 
from  a  proper  frame  of  mind  to  get  up  and 
preach  when  the  time  for  that  ordeal  arrives. 
I  was  asking  Brown  the  other  day  if  he  had 
any  trouble  of  this  kind  in  his  church.  "  Lots 
of  it,"  he  said.  "  One  man  with  his  wife  and 
son  and  three  daughters  walks  up  almost  the 
whole  length  of  the  middle  aisle  every  Sunday 
morning  regularly  at  about  11 :  25."  Then  I 
inquired  why  he  supposed  they  did  it.  His 
reply  was,  "  Oh,  the  lust  of  the  looking-glass,  1 
guess"  But  I  do  not  think  he  is  right.  I 
think  it  is  nothing  but  habit.  But  then,  this  is 
New  York.  I  have  tried  my  best  to  break  it, 
[20] 


The    Late-Comers 


but  to  no  use,  it  seems.  All  the  churches  too 
are  alike.  And  the  theatres  also !  Nothing 
starts  on  time.  I  went  to  a  Mendelssohn  re- 
hearsal a  week  ago.  The  concert  was  scheduled 
to  begin  at  8  : 15.  The  singers  marched  out  on 
the  platform  at  exactly  five  minutes  of  nine, 
and  it  was  midnight  when  we  got  home.  But 
I  tell  my  organist  we  are  going  to  start  at 
11 : 00  promptly,  if  there  is  no  one  present  but 
himself  and  myself  and  the  sexton,  who  is  also 
an  undertaker,  by  the  way.  (You  see  all  our 
sextons  are  undertakers.)  So  we  will  have  the 
minister  and  the  undertaker  anyway  even  if  the 
dead  haven't  arrived.  Which,  by  the  way,  re- 
minds me  of  the  explanation  the  little  fellow 
gave  to  Paul's  remark  in  Timothy.  "  The 
quick,"  he  said,  "  are  those  as  hustles  and  gets 
across  the  avenue  and  the  dead  are  those  as 
doesn't." 

And  that  again  reminds  me  of  a  yarn  I  heard 
quite  recently  about  a  dear  old  minister  I  knew 
well  in  my  college  days,  and  who  six  months  or 
so  ago  went  to  his  well-earned  rest.  His  wife, 
now  more  than  fourscore,  and  who  had  walked 
with  her  husband  for  almost  half  a  century,  some 
[21] 


Letters    to    Edward 


years  ago  lost  her  memory.  It  was  at  her 
husband's  funeral  service  that  it  happened. 
The  room  was  filled  with  mourners,  and  the 
service  was  just  about  to  begin  when  the  dear 
old  lady  turned  to  her  daughter  and  said,  "  Isn't 
it  time  for  papa  to  be  coming  ?  "  And  that  is 
a  little  bit  how  I  feel  on  Sunday  mornings. 
Isn't  it  time  for  the  procession  to  be  coming  ? 
But  I  must  not  get  sacrilegious.  I  will  look 
anxiously  for  your  letter  to-morrow.  So  till 
then  believe  me 

Ever  faithfully  yours, 

MILCOLUMBUS. 


[22] 


The    Climate    of  California 


Monday,  May  S, 
MY  DEAR  EDWARD  : 

I  was  so  pleased  to  get  your  letter  that  I 
could  hardly  wait  to  open  it.  It  was  handed 
to  me  by  the  janitor  just  as  I  was  going  on  to 
the  platform  at  prayer-meeting,  and  during  the 
singing  of  one  of  the  hymns  I  broke  the  seal 
on  the  sly,  and  assured  myself  that  it  had 
no  bad  news.  For  I  was  getting  anxious.  It 
is  now  almost  three  weeks  since  I  heard  from 
you,  and  so  of  course  I  could  not  help  but  fear 
that  perhaps  you  had  contracted  another  of 
those  wretched  colds  and  were  laid  up.  I  have 
so  often  warned  you  against  being  reckless 
that  I  know  you  will  think  me  unnecessarily 
insistent,  but  an  Easterner  cannot  realize  how 
easy  it  is  to  take  cold  in  California.  The  first 
year  I  was  out  there  I  had  a  cold  all  the  time, 
simply  because  that  afternoon  chill,  just  as  the 
sun  goes  down,  is  so  deceptive.  Then  there  is 
such  a  contrast  between  day  and  night.  And 
even  in  the  hottest  day  of  summer  if  one  can 
get  under  the  baldest  apology  for  a  shade  tree 
[23] 


Letters    to    Edward 


he  is  comparatively  cool.  Often  in  waiting  for 
a  trolley  car  have  I  sought  out  and  cuddled 
myself  behind  a  telephone  pole  when  the  ther- 
mometer was  easily  ninety-five.  You  would 
be  surprised  how  Arctic-like  it  was.  It  takes 
fully  a  year  in  Southern  California  to  learn  how 
to  live.  So  again  I  say  "  be  careful." 

But  I  did  not  mean  to  preach  to  you  this 
time,  only  I  did  not  get  a  chance  yesterday  and 
so  I  suppose  it  is  sort  of  automatic.  We  fel- 
lows, like  these  periodical  drinkers,  have  to 
break  loose  at  certain  regular  stages.  The  gal- 
lery in  our  church  was  pronounced  unsafe  on 
Saturday,  and  as  the  workmen  could  not  get  it 
fixed  in  time  the  place  had  to  be  closed.  For 
which  I  was  not  so  very  deeply  grieved.  It  is 
not  at  all  unwelcome  to  get  a  week's  rest  after 
the  winter's  work.  And  the  opportunity  to  go 
around  and  see  how  other  sky-pilots  conduct 
themselves  is  one  I  like  to  take  advantage  of 
on  every  possible  occasion.  Isn't  it  a  real  treat 
to  sit  in  a  pew  once  in  a  while  ?  These  preach- 
ers who  are  always  calling  you  up  to  the  pulpit 
provoke  me  a  little.  I  went  to  church  last 
summer  up  in  the  Adirondacks  to  hear  an  old 
[24] 


The    Big    Hat    in    Church 

classmate  of  mine  whom  I  had  never  heard 
preach.  I  went  in  a  little  late  purposely,  and 
sat  me  down  on  the  very  back  seat  behind  one 
of  these  big  hats  that  are  threatening  to  empty 
our  churches.  And  it  was  certainly  a  mam- 
moth piece  of  millinery.  Really,  I  cannot 
blame  people  for  kicking  as  they  do.  I  think 
some  of  them  are  positively  vulgar.  But  this 
morning  it  was  right  handy  as  a  hiding-place, 
and  I  was  kept  busy  keeping  swing  with  the 
frills  and  the  feathers  as  they  oscillated  to  and 
fro,  for  fear  that  pulpit  eye  would  spot  me. 
But  I  guess  he  had  been  on  the  lookout  for  me, 
as  he  knew  I  was  in  the  neighborhood  some- 
where, summering,  for  I  had  not  been  more 
than  two  minutes  in  my  seat  when  I  heard  a 

voice,  "  I  see  Dr. in  the  congregation. 

Would  he  kindly  come  forward  and  lead  in 

prayer  after  the  singing  of  hymn  No. ?  " 

I  felt  like  saying  something  naughty.  But  up 
the  aisle  I  had  to  march  in  gray  sack  suit  and 
red  necktie  and  turn-down  collar,  and  of  course 
choke  down  my  wicked  feelings  and  lead  in 
prayer. 

But  I  was  going  to  tell  you  what  I  did  yes- 
[25] 


Letters    to    Edward 


terday.  Well,  I  had  quite  a  full  day.  I  cer- 
tainly got  ray  money's  worth.  In  the  morning 
I  went  round  to  hear  Fullerton.  He  is  a  grand 
old  man.  Just  as  brilliant  and  keen  and  in- 
cisive as  ever.  His  text  was  the  parable  of  the 
Sower.  And  he  began  by  telling  why  this 
parable  heads  the  list,  why  the  great  Teacher 
did  not  begin  with  something  else.  He  might 
have  taken  this,  might  have  taken  that,  might 
have  taken  some  other  illustration.  And  so  by 
his  own  unique  process  of  elimination  he  ad- 
vanced to  his  own  ground  with  resistless  and 
tremendous  effect.  His  is  certainly  a  very 
brilliant  mind.  I  have  never  heard  a  preacher 
just  like  him,  and  indeed  I  cannot  recall  a 
single  divine  in  the  whole  history  of  the  Church 
who  I  would  imagine  was  anything  of  his  type ; 
he  is  decidedly  unique.  He  has  made  his  own 
style  and  I  cannot  even  imagine  a  successful 
imitator.  I  liked  him  immensely  but  the  bril- 
liancy and  sparkle  are  the  chief  charm.  The 
listener  is  always  looking  for  it,  always  expect- 
ing it,  and  rarely  is  he  disappointed.  Of  course 
he  is  a  speaker  who  requires  very  close  atten- 
tion. Every  paragraph  is  packed  with  thought. 
[26] 


Some    New    York    Preachers 

This  is  no  place  for  listlessness.  If  I  were  to 
be  allowed  to  make  a  criticism  it  would  be  that 
the  discourse  is  too  severely  intellectual.  Per- 
haps some  might  think  that  the  spiritual  is  not 
sufficiently  pronounced.  One  almost  feels  like 
a  pigmy  criticizing  a  giant,  and  yet  we  all  have 
our  likes  and  dislikes,  and  I  confess  the  way  I 
feel  about  it  myself  is  this,  that  the  spirituality 
of  a  sermon  should  be  its  most  prominent  mark. 
The  more  spiritual  a  sermon  is  the  more  it 
seems  to  me  to  fulfill  its  function,  just  as  the 
more  Scriptural  and  simple  and  earnest  a  prayer 
is  the  more  surely  and  directly  it  reaches  my 
heart.  But  he  is  a  wonderful  man,  one  of  the 
grand  men  of  the  American  pulpit. 

In  the  afternoon  I  wended  my  way  over  to 
Brooklyn  to  hear  Dowling.  He  was  at  the 
Y.  M.  C.  A.  He  has  a  big  following  in  Brook- 
lyn, as  you  know.  It  was  the  first  time  I  ever 
heard  him  preach  although  I  have  read  quite  a 
number  of  his  sermons  in  the  Eagle.  But 
frankly  I  never  could  get  as  much  out  of  them 
as  some  do,  and  so  was  anxious  for  the  oppor- 
tunity to  study  him  at  close  quarters  from  the 
pew.  His  style  is  philosophical ;  it  is  not  quite 
[27] 


Letters    to    Edward 


clear  and  crystal  enough  for  me.  It  is  the  old 
Robert  South  style — long  involved  sentences, 
rounded  periods,  eloquent  climaxes.  But  his 
people  love  him  and  he  is  doing  a  great  work 
for  the  kingdom. 

In  the  evening  I  went  up  to  Columbia  to 
hear  Holland.  I  saw  by  the  papers  that  he 
happened  to  be  preaching  there.  Holland  is  a 
great  man.  I  think  he  is  the  greatest  preacher 
on  Manhattan  Island.  He  is  just  as  brilliant 
as  an  opal  and  with  a  wonderful  play  of  colors. 
I  like  Holland  for  one  thing  because  he  has  no 
tricks,  no  gallery  gymnastics,  never  advertises, 
and  yet  he  is  full  of  surprises.  You  never  can 
tell  just  what  is  coming  next.  He  is,  as  you 
know,  the  apostle  of  the  quiet  manner.  I  some- 
times wonder  if  he  does  not  carry  it  a  little  too 
far.  He  is  a  bit  over-quiet  for  me.  I  think  if 
he  would  cultivate  one  or  two  bursts  of  fervor 
in  his  sermons — I  think  he  would  add  to  his 
effectiveness  fully  fifty  per  cent.  I  always  feel 
when  I  hear  Holland  that  his  discourse  lacks 
something,  and  I  never  can  tell  just  what  it  is 
unless  it  be  the  clinching  appeal.  He  seems  to 
come  to  the  very  verge  of  greatness  and  miss 
[28] 


Some    New    York    Preachers 

it.  But  I  do  enjoy  him  immensely.  He  is  a 
great  man,  a  greater  man  in  my  humble  judg- 
ment than  his  predecessor  Dr.  Edwards,  and 
you  remember  what  a  giant  he  was.  As  an  ex- 
positor he  reminds  me  of  old  Dr.  Taylor — Dr. 
William  M.  Taylor,  I  mean.  How  I  wish  I 
could  succeed  as  an  expository  preacher ! 

By  the  way,  do  you  recall  that  time  we  came 
over  from  Princeton  in  the  Christmas  holidays, 
and  went  to  hear  Dr.  Taylor  in  the  old  Broad- 
way Tabernacle  one  Sunday  evening?  You 
remember  how  we  got  our  note-books  out  ? 
We  were  as  busy  reporting  the  sermon  as  if  we 
had  been  in  Rabbi  Green's  class  room  taking 
down  his  lecture  on  the  "  Hebrew  Feasts."  We 
thought  it  was  Dr.  Taylor  we  were  listening  to 
all  the  time,  till  we  overheard  a  good  Scotch 
lady  say  as  we  were  going  out,  "  I  wish  that  big 
shock  of  hair  had  stayed  in  his  own  pulpit  the 
nicht."  It  seems  it  was  Dr.  Onniston  we  had 
been  reporting,  and  when  we  got  out  on  the 
sidewalk  we  tore  up  the  leaves  we  had  written, 
and  consigned  them  ungraciously  to  the  curb. 
The  New  Tabernacle  is  at  Fifty-Sixth  Street. 
It  is  all  surrounded  by  automobile  shops.  I  was 
[29] 


Letters    to    Edward 


walking  up  Broadway  the  other  day  with  my 
little  boy.  We  were  on  the  other  side  of  the 
street.  He  looked  across  and  saw  the  sign- 
board "  Broadway  Tabernacle  Church  Congre- 
gational." "  Papa,"  he  said,  "  what's  the  mean- 
ing of  that  sign, '  Broadway  Automobile  Church 
Congregational '  ?  Is  it  a  church  for  automo- 
bilists  ?  "  But  I  must  stop.  Write  whenever 
you  can.  And  believe  me, 

Faithfully  yours, 

MILCOLUMBUS. 

P.  S.  Did  I  tell  you  that  I  was  going  to 
Chicago  for  Sunday  week  ?  I  got  an  invitation 
some  weeks  ago  to  speak  at  the  University  and 
very  foolishly  accepted.  Then  on  Sunday 
evening  I  am  going  to  be  with  the  Sunday 
Evening  Club  at  Orchestra  Hall.  They  tell  me 
it  is  quite  a  remarkable  gathering.  I  will  tell 
you  about  it  later. 


[30] 


A    Trip    to    Chicago 


Friday,  May  19,  1912. 
MY  DEAR  EDWARD  : 

"Well,  here  I  am  en  route  to  the  big  windy 
city.  I  have  had  a  most  entertaining  trip  thus 
far  and  I  want  to  tell  you  all  about  it.  I  got 
on  my  sleeper  at  New  York  late  this  afternoon, 
and  when  we  got  through  the  tunnel  I  found 
myself  seated  just  behind  two  young  people 
who  had  been  attending  the  Christian  Endeavor 
Convention  at  Atlantic  City.  One  says  "  Gwen  " 
and  the  other  "  "Walt,"  so  I  presume  Gwendolin 
and  "Walter  are  intended. 

Gwendolin  is  a  pretty  little  rosy-cheeked 
blonde  of  seven  or  eight  and  twenty,  with  a 
high  intellectual  brow,  a  clean  cut  Grecian  face 
and  eyes  that  strike  sparks  of  kindliness  and 
humor.  Walter  is  perhaps  a  trifle  younger.  I 
think  he  is  a  minister,  but  of  that  I  am  not  sure. 
They  are  rattling  good  talkers,  and  as  I  have 
my  note-book  with  me,  and  my  early  shorthand 
training,  I  am  making  good  use  of  both.  I 
overhear  every  word  and  the  dialogue  certainly 
is  interesting  me.  They  seem  not  to  be  aware 
[31] 


Letters    to    Edward 


how  loudly  they  are  talking,  but  then  my  ears 
are  very  acute  and  besides  I  seem  to  be  like 
some  deaf  people  who  hear  best  in  a  noise. 
Every  now  and  then  one  turns  around  to  see  if 
possibly  they  are  being  overheard,  but  as  I  am 
busy  scribbling  I  guess  they  conclude  I  am  some 
poor  tired  travelling  man  writing  his  daily  love- 
note  to  his  wife.  I  did  not  notice  them  so 
much  at  first  nor  what  they  were  saying.  It 
was  not  till  they  started  in  along  my  own  line 
that  my  ears  woke  up  and  took  notice.  Of 
course  when  they  quoted  my  own  name  it  be- 
came quite  exciting.  John  B.  Gough  used  to 
say  that  he  would  pay  any  money  for  a  ticket 
to  hear  a  man  who  could  mimic  him  perfectly. 
And  I  guess  the  next  best  thing  is  to  hear  one- 
self discussed  when  the  conversers  are  uncon- 
scious of  your  presence. 

"  And  how  did  you  like  the  Convention, 
Gwen  ? "  was  the  question  that  really  opened 
my  ears  and  led  me  to  incline. 

"  Oh,  I  cannot  tell  you  how  much  I  enjoyed 

it,  Walt,"  Gwen  made  answer.     "  I  have  gained 

inspiration  and  outlook  and  consecration  I  hope, 

and — well,  something  or  other — ideals  shall  I 

[32] 


A  Theological  Discussion  On  the  Way 

say,  and  lots  of  fresh  new  plans  for  our  little 
church  at  home." 

"Indeed,"  said  Walter,  "and  are  you  not 
afraid  to  put  them  into  practice  ?  There  are  a 
lot  of  old  fogies  in  our  church  and  if  I  were  to 
say  anything  about  new  plans,  well,  I  guess 
they  would  say  to  me  what  they  said  to  Carey, 
1  Sit  down,  young  man ;  keep  quiet.' 

"  Your  grandmother,  you  say,  has  just  been 
celebrating  her  golden  wedding.  We  can  go  a 
century  better.  Our  old  church  has  just  been 
celebrating  its  one  hundred  and  fiftieth  land- 
mark. We  have  been  doing  things  pretty  much 
the  same  way  ever  since,  I  guess — same  psalms, 
same  paraphrases,  same  sermons  I  was  going  to 
say,  same  building  even — what  do  you  think  of 
that  ?  We  are  living  in  the  Old  Testament,  you 
see.  '  Nothing  new  under  the  sun.'  Our  motto 
is  '  Semper  idem,'  always  the  same." 

"Indeed  I'm  not,"  Gwendolin  remarked; 
"  why  should  I  be  afraid  ?  I  think  the  Church 
is  at  least  half  a  century  behind  the  times.  She 
is  too  dreadfully  conservative.  She  has  such  a 
shivering  dread  of  anything  new.  She  reminds 
me  of  a  little  fellow  walking  on  thin  ice.  I 
[33] 


Letters    to    Edward 


cannot  for  the  life  of  me  see  why  we  should  do 
things  the  very  same  way  our  great  grand- 
fathers did  them.  I  love  to  sit  down  and  have 
grandmother  tell  me  of  the '  good  old  long  ago,' 
as  she  calls  it,  when  the  snowbanks  were  fifty 
feet  deep,  and  the  water  in  the  kettle  had 
frozen  during  the  night,  and  they  had  to  light 
the  morning  fire  with  a  flint.  That  was  when 
they  ground  corn  by  putting  two  flat  stones 
together,  throwing  a  handful  of  corn  between 
them  and  taking  four  hours  to  grind  enough 
for  dinner.  It  was  right  enterprising  then  no 
doubt.  But  to-day  when  the  great  Pillsbury 
Mills  roll  out  a  hundred  barrels  an  hour  I  don't 
know  how  enterprising  it  would  be.  Some 
dear  good  people  want  to  do  religious  work  as 
they  did  it  in  Antioch  and  Jerusalem  and 
Laodicea  and  Rome.  Who  would  carry  on 
war  as  the  Romans  did  ?  How  would  Xerxes' 
navy  do  against  a  squadron  of  American  iron- 
clads?" And  she  broke  out  into  a  hearty 
laugh  as  if  surprised  at  her  own  eloquence. 

"  There  is  one  custom,"  she  went  on,  "  that  I 
found  in  some  of  the  Brooklyn  churches  that 
seems  to  me  a  most  excellent  one.    The  first 
[34] 


The    Church  and  the    Children 

ten  minutes  or  so  of  the  morning  service  is  de- 
voted to  the  children.  Yes  exactly,  a  '  league 
of  worshipping  children.'  They  sing  an  appro- 
priate hymn  and  the  pastor  gives  them  a  little 
spicy  talk  of  about  five  minutes ;  then  they  re- 
tire. The  children  all  love  it.  They  look  for- 
ward to  it.  They  want  to  be  there  early  and 
get  a  seat.  Why,  when  I  was  a  girl,  and  that 
was  not  the  day  before  yesterday,"  she  added 
with  a  coy  underglance,  "all  the  Church  was 
to  me  was  a  sermon,  a  sigh,  and,  I'm  not 
ashamed  to  say  it,  a  snooze.  I  never  heard  of 
such  a  thing  as  a  sermon  to  the  children.  Dear 
help  you,  we  children  were  nonentities.  I  was 
as  much  afraid  of  the  Dominie,  as  we  called 
him,  as  I  was  of  McE  wen's  big  yellow  dog.  If 
I  saw  him  coming  I  would  run  around  the 
corner  to  avoid  collision.  There  was  no  kindly 
smile  upon  his  face,  no  hearty  hand-clasp  in  his 
great  parsonic  bosom.  He  was  one  of  those 
fearful  men.  Every  time  I  met  him  he  would 
ask  me,  '  "What  is  the  misery  of  that  estate 
whereinto  man  fell?'  Of  course  I  did  not 
know.  I  never  could  remember  that  old  cate- 
chism anyway,  and  it  wasn't  very  comfortable. 
[35] 


Letters    to    Edward 


He  was  one  of  those  old  Puritan  models  we 
read  about,  face  fixed  in  plaster,  a  walking 
weeping  willow.  His  very  look  was  sepulchral. 
We  used  to  go  and  sit  in  the  same  pew  always, 
and  listen  to  the  same  man  always,  who  often, 
it  seemed,  preached  the  same  sermon  in  pretty 
nearly  the  same  way.  As  some  one  said,  you 
knew  exactly  what  you  were  going  to  get,  and 
if  you  did  not  get  it — which  by  the  way  did 
not  happen  very  often — you  were  disappointed. 
I  am  not  blaming  the  dear  old  soul.  It  takes 
a  genius  to  be  fresh  and  interesting  always. 
And  we  make  a  man  who  is  not  a  genius  try  to 
do  his  work.  And  when  he  fails,  as  fail  he 
will  and  must,  we  say,  '  how  dull,  how  dull, 
how  very  dull ! ' 

"  Now,  "Walt,  to  be  perfectly  frank  with  you, 
I  think  the  Church  in  our  large  cities  is  going 
back.  I  do  not  really  believe  she  is  holding 
her  own.  The  clergy  of  course  will  deny  it, 
but  facts  are  facts,  and  the  clergy  are  poor 
judges  anyway.  They  are  too  near  at  hand. 
They  cannot  see  the  battle  for  the  smoke,  like 
the  fellow  who  could  not  see  the  forest  for  the 
trees.  Some  of  us  standing  aloof  are  having  a 
[36] 


Abandoned    City    Churches 

clearer  view  than  the  clergy.  It  requires  dis- 
tance to  see  the  mountain. 

"  Let  me  tell  you  something.  "Would  you 
believe  that  I  counted  twenty-nine  abandoned 
churches  in  New  York  City  below  Fourteenth 
Street  ?  Well,  I  did,  and  I  did  not  see  more 
than  half  of  them  either.  There  are  five  hun- 
dred thousand  souls  in  that  churchless  territory. 
Just  think  of  it !  The  Church  is  running  away 
from  the  people.  It  is  a  race  for  life.  Now 
did  you  ever  hear  a  worse  caricature  of  Chris- 
tianity than  that  ?  I  see  by  the  latest  statistics 
that  in  1890  there  was  one  church-member  in 
New  York  to  every  ten  of  the  city's  popula- 
tion, while  last  year  there  was  one  in  twelve. 
That  means  a  decline  of  about  one  per  cent,  a 
year. 

"  Since  leaving  home  I  made  a  point  to  visit 
some  of  the  larger  churches  on  different  Sun- 
day evenings  and  not  ODO  of  these  had  more 
than  one  hundred  people  present,  and  in  one 
particularly  I  counted  exactly  seventeen — in- 
cluding the  preacher,  sexton  and  your  humble 
servant.  Now  what  do  you  think  of  that  ?  I 
can  feel  the  chill  of  the  place  yet.  It  was  like 
[37] 


Letters    to    Edward 


one  of  our  cold  December  drizzles  at  home. 
And  that  is  not  the  worst  either.  For  every 
church  that  was  open  I  found  at  least  two  that 
were  closed.  Think  of  that.  I  know  it  is 
vacation  time  and  hot  weather  and  all  that, 
but  I  think  it  is  wrong ;  I  think  it  is  wicked. 
Walt,  the  Protestant  Church  in  our  large  cities 
is  losing  ground. 

"Now  what  is  the  trouble?  The  trouble, 
I  firmly  believe,  is  that  she  is  behind  the 
times.  She  is  not  progressive.  She  is  not 
attractive.  She  is  a  slave  to  tradition.  She  is 
meeting  living  men  with  dead  words.  She  has 
crushed  all  her  magnificence  into  an  iron  creed. 
She's  antiquated  in  her  machinery,  her  methods 
and  a  good  many  of  her  men.  Now  there's 

Dr.  .     A  friend  told  me  to  be  sure  to  go 

to  hear  him,  that  he  was  such  an  orator,  and  so 
of  course  I  went.  But  dear  me,  he'd  put  me  to 
sleep  with  his  oratory.  His  sermon  no  doubt 
was  fine,  but  my  own  conviction  is  that  the 
finer  your  sermon,  the  fewer  you  will  have  to 
hear  it.  "Walt,  the  pulpit,  as  a  rule,  is  not 
practical.  There  ought  to  be  a  chair  in  all  our 
seminaries,  I  firmly  believe,  to  teach  men  tact. 
[38] 


The    Question    of   Amusements 

Half  our  young  theologues  are  perfect  clowns. 
What's  the  use  of  preaching,  as  I  heard  a  man 
do  last  summer,  about  the  deceitfulness  of 
riches  to  a  lot  of  poor  fellows  with  twenty 
dollars  a  month  or  so,  and  sometimes  almost  as 
many  children  ? 

"  Why,  when  I  was  a  girl,  in  that  little  old 
country  church  we  used  to  attend,  I  was  told 
that  cards  were  of  the  household  of  Satan. 
The  dance,  the  theatre,  the  billiard  table  be- 
longed to  the  same  Herodian  family.  Now  I 
do  not  play  cards  because  I  think  it  is  such  a 
waste  of  time,  and  I  do  not  go  to  the  theatre 
as  a  rule,  although  I  think  the  drama  has  a 
great  mission  and  great  possibilities  for  good, 
and  I  never  dance,  but  what  in  the  name  of  all 
that  is  beautiful  is  there  wrong  about  a  bowl- 
ing alley  or  a  billiard  cue  ?  Why  can't  we 
learn  from  His  Satanic  Majesty?  He  has 
certainly  been  a  most  successful  sportsman. 
He  knows  how  to  fish.  He  has  been  landing 
fish  as  fast  as  he  could  pull  them  in.  The 
Church  doesn't  seem  to  have  the  remotest  idea 
of  the  science  of  baiting.  Once  in  a  while  she 
baits  with  a  protracted  meeting.  She  hands 
[39] 


the  rod  to  a  Chapman  or  a  Dawson  or  a  Gipsy 
Smith  or  a  Billy  Sunday.  But  the  fish  are  not 
overly  fond  of  this  food.  The  best,  the  largest, 
the  fattest  trout  won't  come  near  it.  You  only 
catch  the  little  nervous  fellows." 

Well,  my  dear  boy,  I  must  bring  this  long 
eavesdropping  report  to  a  close.  But  I  knew 
you  would  like  to  read  it.  The  waiter  has  just 
passed  through  with  his  "  first  call  for  dinner  in 
the  dining  car."  And  my  friends  have  left  me. 
But  I  am  going  to  follow  them  up.  I  will  keep 
scribbling  away  when  they  return — for  they 
are  certainly  an  interesting  couple.  Mean- 
while believe  me  ever  most  faithfully, 

MILCOLUMBUS. 


[40] 


Notes    For    a    Sermon 


Saturday,  May  00, 
MY  DEAR  EDWARD  : 

Well,  here  I  am  at  the  Auditorium. 
We  arrived  safely  about  noon.  I  saw  but 
little  of  my  two  friends  this  morning,  for  they 
spent  most  of  the  time  in  the  observation  car, 
but  last  evening  after  dinner  they  came  back 
to  their  seats  and  had  it  hot  and  heavy  again, 
and  I  was  just  as  interested  as  ever.  I 
promised  you  that  I  would  pass  the  discussion 
on,  but  if  it  bores  you,  just  don't  bother  read- 
ing it.  As  for  myself,  I  think  I  will  work  it 
up  into  a  sermon  somehow.  As  you  will  see 
before  going  far,  she  is  no  clown,  and  he,  as  I 
partly  suspected  at  first,  and  now  feel  almost 
sure,  is  a  young  theologue.  I  had  a  good  view 
of  them  both  when  entering.  Walter  is  tall, 
fully  six  feet,  with  a  large  open  blue  eye,  a 
smooth  shaven  face  and  a  wealth  of  coal-black 
hair.  The  general  tone  of  form  and  feature 
indicates  refinement,  with  a  peculiar  intensity 
of  utterance  that  makes  him  quite  impressive. 
His  head  is  large,  and  noticeably  broad  and 
full  in  the  temporal  regions.  His  voice  is  deep 
[41] 


Letters    to    Edward 


and  soft.  He  spoke  with  a  clean-cut  phrase 
and  pointedness.  He  has  the  polish  and  car- 
riage of  a  college  man. 

"True,"  said  Gwendolin,  "and  don't  you 
think  the  reason  is  that  the  Church  to-day  is 
drifting  into  Unitarianism  ?  I  mean,  don't  you 
think  that  religion  is  getting  more  humanitarian 
and  less  divinitarian — if  I  may  coin  a  word  ?  " 

"  That  depends,"  said  Walter,  "  on  what  you 
mean  by  Unitarian.  Unitarianism  is  one  of 
those  flexible,  elusive  words  !  If  you  mean  that 
the  Church  is  getting  more  practical  and  less 
theoretical  and  doctrinal,  more  concerned  about 
men's  bodies  than  she  used  to  be,  then  I  would 
say  yes,  certainly,  without  a  doubt." 

"  No,  I  mean  doctrinal,  too,"  said  Gwendolin. 
"Take,  for  instance,  the  Bible.  Hardly  any 
one  to-day  believes  in  the  Bible  in  the  same  way 
as  we  used  to.  Why,  when  I  was  a  girl,  every 
word,  every  syllable,  every  letter,  every  stroke 
and  tittle  and  dot  and  jot  were  believed  to  have 
been  written  by  the  Divine  finger.  What  is  it 
you  call  it  ?  Plenary  inspiration,  verbal  dicta- 
tion, amanuensism — isn't  that  it  ? 

"  Anyhow,  the  good  book  was  in  some  way 
[42] 


Some  Old  Ideas  About  the  Bible 

machined.  The  most  of  us  did  not  have  the 
faintest  idea  how  it  came  together.  I  guess  we 
thought  it  was  handed  down  in  its  integrity 
from  heaven.  Perhaps  some  of  us  concluded 
in  our  simple  hearts  that  God  must  have  given 
it  to  Moses  or  Noah  or  some  of  those  old  Patres 
'way  back  on  the  sky-line  of  history.  Of  course 
that  made  us  reverence  it.  Why,  if  you  had 
hinted  such  a  thing  to  papa's  mother  as  errors 
in  the  Bible,  she  would  have  taken  a  fit.  Like 
as  not  she  would  have  made  us  memorize  the 
Pentateuch  for  punishment. 

"  I  remember  one  Christmas  day ;  remember 
it  distinctly.  Aunt  Margaret  and  little  Cath- 
erine were  spending  the  day  with  us.  "Well,  at 
dinner  we  didn't  have  a  chair  high  enough  for 
Catherine,  and  so  I  took  out  the  big- family 
Bible  and  a  bundle  of  music  sheets,  and  put 
them  under  her.  My,  my,  but  you  should 
have  seen  grandmother.  I  think  I  shall  never 
forget  the  look  she  gave  me.  It  darkened  my 
whole  Christmas  delight.  We  had  to  have 
family  worship  immediately  after  dinner  and  a 
long  chapter  had  to  be  read — from  Lamenta- 
tions I  guess — to  make  atonement." 
[43] 


Letters    to    Edward 


"  Yes,  but  are  you  sure,"  interrupted  Walter, 
"  that  our  modern  spirit  of  irreverence  is  an  im- 
provement ?  Maybe  you  do  not  call  it  irrever- 
ence, but  I'm  just  kind  of  old-fashioned  enough 
to  call  it  that.  The  trouble  with  the  world  to- 
day, Gwen,  I  cannot  help  feeling,  is  largely 
lack  of  reverence.  No  ground  is  sacred,  no 
house  is  sacred,  no  day  even  is  sacred.  There 
is  no  most  holy  place  in  life  any  longer ;  there 
is  not  even  a  holy  place.  Our  generation  has 
become  one  of  iconoclasts  and  monument  break- 
ers. Nothing  is  too  sacred  for  man's  vulgar 
touch;  nothing,  absolutely  nothing,"  he  em- 
phasized, with  a  touch  of  impatience. 

"The  house  where  Burns  was  born  is  the 
Mecca  of  all  Scotchmen.  The  manuscripts  of 
Angelo  have  been  sealed  in  a  glass  case.  The 
Transfiguration  of  Kaphael  is  ribbed  by  iron 
bars.  The  Sistine  Chapel  is  guarded  with  sol- 
diers. When  Doctor  Schliemann  unearthed  the 
lost  works  of  Aristotle,  such  veneration  did 
scholars  cherish  for  the  old  worn-out  parchment 
that  they  photographed  the  pages,  and  then 
sealed  it  in  decorated  stone. 

"But  to-day  nothing  is  revered,  nothing, 
[44] 


The    Irreverence    of   the    Age 

nothing.  Niebuhr  tells  us  Romulus  did  not 
found  Rome.  Wolff  affirms  Homer  did  not 
write  the  Iliad.  Greene  affirms  he  did  not  write 
the  Odyssey.  Briggs  says  Moses  did  not  write 
the  Pentateuch.  Some  other  fellow  insists 
Shakespeare  did  not  write  Hamlet.  The  author 
of  *  Supernatural  Religion,'  says  John,  did  not 
write  his  gospel.  We  used  to  think  that  all  the 
Psalms  were  written  by  David.  Now  Canon 
Cheyne  and  these  German  omniscients  are  tell- 
ing us  that  not  one  of  them  was  written  by 
David,  and  that  not  a  single  one  of  them  has 
any  direct  reference  to  a  personal  Messiah. 

"  And  so  our  Bible  critics  pore  over  dusty 
tomes,  and  search  for  faults  and  flaws.  There 
is  no  veneration  for  anything,  Gwen.  Even 
children  have  no  respect  for  their  parents ; 
servants  none  for  their  masters.  The  chief  end 
of  man  used  to  be  to  '  glorify  God  and  enjoy 
Him  forever.'  Now,  as  Canon  Farrar  said, 
'  the  chief  end  of  man  is  to  speculate  and  the- 
orize and  enjoy  it  forever ' — aye,  and  a  right 
good  speculator  he  was  himself.  The  Pyra- 
mids, I  am  told,  are  being  covered  up  with  soap 
advertisements,  and  the  ancient  temples  of 
[45] 


Egypt  are  being  torn  down  to  build  hovels. 
When  those  old  Goths  poured  down  upon  Eome, 
their  mission  was  destruction.  They  entered 
the  Forum  and  began  hurling  javelins  at  the 
paintings.  They  struck  away  the  pedestal  of 
every  god  and  hero.  They  hewed  to  pieces  the 
portals  of  the  Pantheon.  Then  they  burned 
down  temple  and  school  and  college.  That  is 
exactly  what  the  critics  are  doing  with  the 
Bible.  Oh,  it  makes  me  tired." 

"  Oh,  Walt,  I  don't  look  at  it  in  that  way.  I 
think  you  are  unfair.  Many  of  our  higher  critics 
are  quite  as  reverent  as  the  most  orthodox 
scholars.  I  have  sat  under  several  of  them  my- 
self, and  I  know  it  is  true.  For  myself,  I  think 
the  higher  criticism  is  restoring  the  Bible.  We 
must  distinguish  between  the  faith  and  the 
accretions  to  the  faith.  It  seems  to  me  pure 
waste  of  time  to  contend  that  these  accretions 
have  not  been  considerable,  that  a  jewel  could 
lie  for  two  thousand  years  in  the  open  and  not 
gather  some  rust.  For  instance,  a  portrait  of 
Dante  has  recently  been  brought  to  light. 
For  a  long  time  it  was  hidden  away  and  lost. 
The  world  knew  that  there  was  such  a  portrait 
[46] 


The    Higher    Criticism 

somewhere,  but  no  one  knew  where.  At  last 
it  was  discovered  on  a  certain  wall.  Dust  and 
soot  and  stain  had  defaced  it ;  some  one  too  had 
whitewashed  over  it,  and  the  picture  was  lost. 
Then  it  was  discovered,  and  little  by  little,  scale 
by  scale,  the  whitewash  and  soot  were  removed, 
and  Dante  was  brought  to  light. 

"  Some  years  ago  one  of  the  noblest  cathe- 
drals in  England  was  slightingly  spoken  of. 
Its  transept  columns  were  found  to  be  nothing 
but  plaster,  but  one  day  some  kind  friend  chipped 
through  paint  and  plaster,  when  lo,  there  ap- 
peared the  most  beautiful  workmanship  of 
exquisite  marble.  Nobody  claimed,  so  far  as 
I  know,  that  it  would  be  desecration  to  destroy 
the  plaster,  and  so  very  soon  it  had  vanished. 
That,  it  seems  to  me,  is  what  criticism  is  do- 
ing with  the  Bible.  Destruction,  you  say? 
No,  no,  restoration.  It  is  bringing  back  the 
temple  to  its  original  glory.  A  heap  of  dust 
and  rubbish  has  accumulated.  Let  us  sweep  it 
away.  No  divinity  in  dust.  Let  it  go. 

"  No  scholarly  Christian  to-day,  Walt,  holds 
to  the  equal  authority  and  validity  of  all  parts 
of  Scripture.  You  surely  must  admit  that. 
[47] 


Letters    to    Edward 


Who  wrote  the  Pentateuch  ?  Nobody  knows. 
We  are  almost  certain  Moses  did  not  write  it. 
Who  wrote  the  books  of  Kings  and  Chronicles  ? 
Nobody  knows.  Who  wrote  the  book  of 
Esther  ?  The  most  conservative  Princeton 
man  does  not  pretend  to  know.  In  our  finals 
at  the  University  one  of  Dr.  Moulton's  ques- 
tions was  to  tell  what  we  knew  about  the 
authorship  of  Job.  Well,  Dr.  Moulton  him- 
self says  that  it  does  not  matter  a  particle  who 
wrote  the  peerless  epic.  Who  wrote  the  book 
of  Ecclesiastes  or  the  Song  of  Songs  or  the 
Proverbs  ?  Why,  there  is  not  a  single  book  in 
the  whole  Old  Testament  of  whose  authorship 
we  can  speak  with  confidence.  Moreover,  all 
scholars  admit  to-day  that  there  are  errors  in 
the  Bible.  It  is  full  of  errors, — chronological 
errors,  literary  errors.  The  Science  of  the 
Bible  is  the  science  of  the  most  unscientific 
people  that  ever  lived.  To  the  Hebrew  nation 
real  science  was  unknown. 

"  We  know  the  story  of  Creation  is  not  lit- 
erally true.     It  is  not  true  in  time  or  order. 
We  know   there  never   was   a   world  deluge. 
The  story  of  the  origin  of  language  is  simply 
[48] 


The    Bible    Not    Infallible 

childish.  We  know  that  the  Old  Testament 
miracles  are  absurd — many  of  them — and  we 
are  all  agreed  that  its  morality,  a  great  deal  of 
it,  is  shocking.  To  this  day  the  Mormons  de- 
fend polygamy  out  of  the  Old  Testament.  I 
know  there  is  a  primeval  charm  about  it,  and 
all  that,  but  that  is  not  the  point. 

"Now,  the  way  I  look  at  it  is  this.  The 
Bible  is  progressive.  It  is  not  infallible.  Noth- 
ing progressive  could  possibly  be  infallible. 
Why,  there  is  not  a  single  verse  in  the  whole 
Old  Testament  where  it  claims  to  be  infallible. 
Infallibility  has  been  foisted  on  it  by  tradition. 
The  Bible,  as  I  take  it,  is  an  evolution  like  the 
locomotive  or  the  printing-press.  The  Divine 
spirit  never  creates  a  perfect  instrument,  but  sets 
it  going  in  a  crude  form  with  possibilities.  A 
perfect  man,  a  perfect  Christian,  a  perfect  in- 
strument would  be  a  discord  in  the  economy  of 
earth,  for  earth  means  growth,  development, 
improvement. 

"  Some  people  are  afraid  the  Bible  will  go 

out  of  fashion.     They  are  always  defending  it, 

propping  it,  apologizing  for  it.     Did  not  Calvin 

protest  against  the  Copernican  system  of  astron- 

[49] 


Letters    to    Edward 


omy,  because  it  was  irreconcilable  with  Scrip- 
ture, and  did  not  John  Owen  reject  Newton's 
discovery  of  gravitation  for  the  same  reason  ? 
The  history  of  exegesis  is  the  history  of 
acknowledged  blunders.  Absurd !  The  Bible 
is  the  classic  of  the  human  soul.  Truth  needs 
no  defense,  except  defense  sometimes  from  its 
defenders.  Do  I  love  my  home  where  I  hope 
to  nestle  snugly  to-morrow  night  ?  Why  do  I 
love  it  ?  Do  I  love  it  the  less  because  it  is  a 
piece  of  human  workmanship  ?  Is  it  the  bricks 
and  stones  and  mortar  that  make  it  so  dear  to 
me  ?  Or  is  it  rather  the  dear  ones  who  live  in 
it? 

"  Some  one  calls  the  Bible  the  Westminster 
Abbey  of  life.  I  have  been  thinking  of  that. 
Westminster  Abbey  is  not  the  work  of  one  gen- 
eration, but  rather  of  twenty  or  thirty  genera- 
tions. Edward  the  Confessor  started  it  in  the 
eleventh  century  on  the  Norman  plan.  His 
work  was  carried  on  by  Eichard  the  Second 
and  Henry  the  Fifth.  The  western  end  \vas 
not  completed  till  Henry  the  Seventh's  time, 
and  the  western  towers  were  not  finished,  if  I 
recollect  rightly,  till  the  reign  of  George  the 
[50] 


The    Bible    a    Cathedral 

Third.  Outwardly  the  Abbey  represents  many 
orders — Norman,  Gothic,  Early  English — so 
that  we  have  written  out  in  stone  the  history  of 
the  great  periods  of  architecture.  But  the 
grand  old  Abbey  is  not  many,  but  one.  It  is  a 
unit. 

"So  with  the  Bible.  It  is  like  all  great 
cathedrals,  of  composite  character  and  historic 
growth.  It  is  a  lofty  pile  of  literature.  It  is 
not  the  unity  of  a  house,  but  of  an  Abbey. 
Law,  litany,  psalm,  song,  sermon,  prophecy, 
poetry,  history,  all  in  one.  There  it  stands.  It 
needs  no  recommendation,  does  it?  What 
though  you  can  point  to  a  stone  here  and 
there  that  is  defaced  ?  Is  that  such  a  detrac- 
tion ?  "What  if  the  workmanship  in  parts  is  de- 
fective ?  Is  that  such  an  enigma  ?  What  if  a 
chapel  or  cloister,  supposed  to  be  one  of  the 
earliest  parts,  is  discovered  to  be  the  contribu- 
tion of  a  later  hand  ?  Does  that  invalidate  the 
whole  ?  Look  at  it  in  its  entirety.  There  the 
noble  monument  stands.  It  tells  its  own  tale, 
doesn't  it  ?  It  has  survived  fire  and  flood,  re- 
sisted storm  and  siege.  The  only  deliverance 
the  Bible  needs,  I  say,  Walt,  is  deliverance  from 
[51] 


Letters    to    Edward 


its  defenders.  It  has  more  to  fear,  I  firmly  be- 
lieve, from  the  tyranny  of  tradition  than  from 
the  criticism  of  scholarship — I  mean  reverent 
scholarship." 

"Oh,  pshaw,"  interrupted  Walter.  "Rev- 
erent scholarship!  That's  just  it.  If  these 
critics  would  only  agree  on  something  them- 
selves, and  then  come  up  in  solid  line,  I  would 
not  mind  so  much,  but  the  trouble  is  they  don't. 
They  do  not  agree  on  anything.  One  tells  you 
this,  another  tells  you  that,  and  a  third  tells  you 
something  else.  If  I  cannot  accept  the  word 
of  the  Bible  in  science,  if  its  geology  is  absurd, 
how  on  earth  can  I  trust  to  its  testimony  on 
graver  matters  ?  If  what  it  tells  me  about  this 
world  is  not  reliable,  how  can  I  accept  what  it 
tells  me  about  the  other  world  ?  Come  now, 
Gwen,  would  you  yourself  believe  a  man's 
word  concerning  things  with  which  you  were 
not  acquainted,  if  he  deliberately  falsified  con- 
cerning things  with  which  you  were  acquainted  ? 
Tradition  means  handed  down.  Is  a  thing  to 
be  condemned  simply  because  it  has  been 
handed  down  ?  What  is  there  that  has  not 
been  handed  down  ?  Is  a  thing  false  because 
[52] 


Tradition 

it  has  the  seal  of  age  ?  We  used  to  think  that 
was  a  strength  rather  than  a  weakness.  It  takes 
age  to  make  a  diamond.  You  can  make  char- 
coal in  an  hour  or  so,  but  the  diamond  calls  for 
cycles,  and  yet  the  chemist  tells  us  they  are  the 
same. 

"  Why,  you  cannot  understand  a  single  pic- 
ture gallery  in  Europe  without  a  knowledge  of 
the  Old  Testament.  You  cannot  enjoy  any  of 
the  great  oratorios  without  being  well  versed  in 
it.  You  cannot  read  English  literature  intelli- 
gently without  knowing  your  prophet  and  poet 
and  apostle.  Oh,  it's  mighty  easy  to  destroy  ! 

"  King  in  the  new.  Yes,  ring  it  in  by  all 
means,  but  let  us  be  sure  first  that  it  is  true.  I 
rejoice  in  every  honest  research  into  the  text  of 
Scripture.  All  honor  to  the  noble  men  who 
with  scholarly  sight  and  insight  are  sweeping 
away  the  dust,  and  removing  the  debris,  and 
bringing  to  light  the  Kock  of  Ages.  The  vol- 
umes of  nature  and  Kevelation  must  correspond. 
God  cannot  lie.  His  hand  wrote  both. 

"  Only  one  thing  that  annoys  me  and  antag- 
onizes me  is  that  these  critics  get  so  reckless 
and  arrogant  and  irreverent.  Thev  know  so  ir- 
[53] 


Letters    to    Edward 


ritatingly  much.  They  are  so  cock-sure  of 
everything.  They  tell  us  that  the  good  Book 
has  been  so  clumsily  patched  together  that  all 
they  have  to  do  is  simply  sit  in  their  studies 
and  mark  where  this  redactor  began  and  where 
that  fellow  ended ;  where  this  Catholic  monk  in- 
terpolated a  passage,  and  that  other  Aramaic 
scribe  omitted  one,  and  so  on  and  so  on. 

"  Maxwell  says  that  the  six  later  books  of 
Virgil  were  written  by  a  second  Yirgil  who 
lived  one  hundred  and  fifty  years  later.  And 
why  ?  Because  the  earlier  cantos  are  romantic, 
and  the  later  ones  so  tragic.  Greene  says  that 
Homer  did  not  write  the  Odyssey  because  of  its 
quiet  pastoral  air,  so  different  from  the  bugle 
ring  of  the  Iliad.  "Why,  shortly  after  Napoleon's 
death,  a  critical  inquiry  was  published,  trying 
to  prove  that  no  such  person  as  Napoleon  ever 
lived. 

"Now,  my  humble  way  of  looking  at  it, 
Gwen,  is  that  if  you  drown  Adam  and  Noah 
and  Joshua  and  Jonah  in  a  deluge  of  German 
denial ;  if  you  kill  off  Moses  as  an  author,  and 
David  as  a  singer;  if  you  cut  Isaiah  into  half  a 
dozen  pieces ;  if  you  say  there  are  several 
[54] 


Destructive    Criticism 

Micahs,  and  I  do  not  know  how  many  Zecha- 
riahs ;  if  you  claim  that  this  new  Daniel  that 
we  hear  so  much  about  belongs  to  an  age  four 
hundred  and  fifty  years  later  than  the  Daniel 
of  our  childhood,  you  will  have  left  a  residuum 
of  silly,  incredible  stuff,  of  no  more  use  than 
an  old  almanac  —  a  pious  Arabian  Night's 
tale,  and  really  not  worth  paying  postage  on  to 
send  to  Manila." 

But  goodness  me,  I  did  not  realize  that  I  had 
written  so  much.  Here  is  my  twelfth  page, 
and  I  must  stop  short.  Only  let  me  say  in  a 
whisper  how  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  this 
little  Miranda.  I  know  you  would  have  fallen 
in  love  with  her  right  away.  A  college  girl 
and  evidently  training  herself  for  Christian 
work  !  I  could  not  help  feeling  all  the  time 
what  a  dandy  little  wife  she  would  have  made 
for  an  old  misogynist  like  yourself.  Only  I 
half  suspect  you  are  too  late.  Good-night,  dear 
boy,  and  believe  me  ever  faithfully  yours, 

MILCOLUMBUS, 


[55] 


Letters    to    Edward 


Saturday,  May  27,  1912. 
MY  DEAR  EDWARD  : 

I  arrived  home  last  evening  from  my 
trip ;  had  a  delightful  time.  I  did  very  little 
work  while  away,  just  preached  once  and 
lectured  once,  and  the  rest  of  the  time  visited 
the  music  halls  and  the  moving  pictures  and 
one  or  two  galleries.  Do  you  know,  Edward, 
I  love  to  be  alone  in  a  great  city  ?  Mornings 
I  would  saunter  up  and  down  State  Street 
studying  face  and  figure,  walk  and  window, 
making  note  and  comment.  It  is  the  kind  of 
solitude  that  appeals  to  me,  not  the  solitude  of 
the  cloister  but  the  solitude  of  the  crowd.  I 
had  a  few  strolls  through  the  Park  and  one 
afternoon  a  sail  on  the  lake.  So  the  week 
slipped  by,  and  Thursday  evening  I  took 
the  train  for  my  wife  and  bairnies  ;  but  I  was 
not  so  fortunate  in  the  matter  of  company  com- 
ing home  as  I  was  going  out. 

I  was  so  glad  to  find  your  letter  awaiting 
me  at  the  bottom  of  a  pile  of  others.     But 
yours  was  the  first  one  opened  and  it  took  me 
[56] 


Various    Types    of   Elders 

away  back  "  over  the  hills  and  far  away."  I 
was  especially  interested  in  the  way  you  sized 
up  your  session,  if  I  may  use  that  undignified 
word,  and  in  the  main  your  judgment  is  sur- 
prisingly correct.  Parker,  you  know,  used  to 
be  the  president  of  the  Kansas  City  and 
Council  Bluffs  Railroad.  He,  as  you  no  doubt 
have  been  told  more  than  once,  is  the  money 
king  of  the  church  and  is  rated  in  the  seven 
figures.  And  Elsie  is  a  beautiful  girl.  Mrs. 
Parker  prides  herself  greatly  on  being  a 
Daughter  of  the  Revolution.  She  is  a  society 
woman  pure  and  simple  and  you  know  what 
that  means  as  far  as  church  work  is  concerned. 
You  will  not  get  much  help  out  of  her.  Like 
a  good  many  others,  she  is  rather  too  exclusive 
to  be  much  of  a  spiritual  force.  But  Parker  is 
a  good  fellow  and  you  can  trust  him  absolutely. 
Bonar  you  will  have  found  out  long  ere  this 
too,  I  am  sure,  is  a  nephew  of  the  famous 
Horatius  and  Andrew.  He  is  a  typical  Scotch- 
man from  head  to  heel,  an  ardent  Burns  wor- 
shipper and  the  bluest  kind  of  a  Covenanter. 
You  will  find  him  about  as  much  like  his  two 
uncles  as  hickory  is  like  sugar  cane.  He  is  one 
[57] 


Letters    to    Edward 


of  the  old-timers  who  believes  the  good  Book 
from  "  Giver  to  Giver " — Balaam,  Jonah, 
Daniel,  Virgin  Birth  and  all  the  rest.  Some 
say  that  he  does  not  believe  in  it  soundly 
enough  to  keep  the  Ten  Commandments,  but 
I  never  knew  anything  really  corroborative  of 
that.  But  he  certainly  is  a  follower  of  John 
of  Geneva  if  there  ever  was  one.  He  accepts 
the  doctrine  of  election  wholesale — reprobation 
and  all.  He  swallows  the  entire  scheme — 
foreordination,  original  sin,  eternal  decree, 
golden  pavement,  fire,  brimstone.  You  see  he 
takes  his  theology  as  he  takes  his  regular  toddy 
— straight.  A  dear  old  lady,  a  little  blunt 
perhaps  in  her  observations,  said  to  me  one  day 
that  his  breath  smelled  of  the  sulphur  when  it 
did  not  smell  of  the  other  stuff.  But  he  is 
perfectly  open  about  it.  He  frankly  confesses 
to  seeing  no  harm  in  taking  a  glass  and  with 
all  his  peculiarities  I  must  say  I  like  him  im- 
mensely. Then,  too,  he  is  a  capital  critic. 
But  he'll  watch  your  theology  like  a  hawk  for 
a  while. 

Yanderveer  is  your  silent  man  and  a  fine 
fellow  he  is.     You  can  bank  on  him  every  day 
[58] 


A    Faithful    Elder 


in  the  week.  You  can  depend  on  him  in  the 
dark,  as  Moody  used  to  put  it.  He  is  reliable 
right  down  to  the  roots.  He  will  not  say  very 
much  but  he  will  be  on  hand  every  time  the 
church  doors  are  open.  He  cannot  "  give " 
largely  but  he  will  give  himself  and  that  is  no 
mean  item.  I  do  not  suppose  that  Vanderveer 
will  ever  tell  you  how  he  is  enjoying  your 
sermons,  but  all  the  same  he  will  be  the  joy  of 
your  heart.  You  know  some  people  are  always 
telling  you  how  much  good  your  sermons  are 
doing  them  and  how  they  love  to  hear 'you 
preach,  but  they  do  not  love  enough  to  make 
them  care  to  hear  you  more  than  once  a  week, 
or  maybe  once  a  month.  As  for  trying  to  en- 
courage you  by  coming  out  after  dark — well, 
they  never  think  of  that.  Somehow  the  night 
air  does  not  agree  with  them.  They  always 
catch  cold,  the  funny  part  of  it  being  that  the 
theatre  never  affects  them  so.  So  they  just 
leave  you  alone  to  break  your  poor  heart 
"  hollering  in  an  empty  hall."  I  firmly  believe, 
Edward,  that  more  ministers  are  chilled  and 
crushed  by  that  neglected  second  service  than 
by  any  other  one  thing.  It  seems  such  a  cruel 
[59] 


Letters    to    Edward 


shame  to  ask  a  man  to  spend  two  or  three  days 
on  a  message  that  ninety  per  cent,  of  the  peo- 
ple never  expect  to  hear.  If  our  congregations 
realized  how  hard  it  is  to  preach  to  upholstery 
they  would  be  more  considerate.  And  even 
when  one  does  get  a  half  decent  audience  they 
are  simply  the  floaters  from  some  other  church, 
so  that  the  other  fellow  is  left  high  and  dry. 
I  remember  some  years  ago  meeting  one  of 
these  Sunday  morning  Christians  on  the  street. 
He  stopped  me  and  said,  "  My,  but  I  do  enjoy 
your  preaching.  I  hate  to  miss  a  single  ser- 
mon. Isn't  there  something  I  can  do  to  help 
you  ?  "  "Well,  I  thought,  here  is  my  chance. 
And  I  blurted  out,  "  Yes,  Mr.  Strayhorne,  I 
don't  really  know  a  single  way  in  which  you 
could  help  me  more  than  by  filling  one  of 
those  empty  seats  at  our  mid-week  meeting." 
You  should  have  seen  the  look  that  came  over 
the  poor  fellow's  face — and  the  stuttering. 
And  you  should  have  heard  the  excuses  after 
he  had  gained  his  composure — it  was  really 
quite  funny.  But  Yanderveer  is  not  that  kind. 
He  is  not  much  glitter,  but  he  is  all  gold. 
Wilkinson,  on  the  other  hand,  is  just  the 
[60] 


Criticizing    the    Sermon 

opposite.  You  may  think  him  at  first  a  little 
of  a  blarney.  He  will  tell  you  every  Sunday 
how  grand  your  sermons  are  and  how  much 
good  they  are  doing  him,  but  he  means  it  all. 
He  really  wants  to  help  and  he  always  man- 
ages to  find  a  pleasant  word.  As  you  grow  to 
know  him  you  will  learn  to  love  him.  Did 
you  ever  notice  how  contradictorily  couples 
are  sometimes  mated,  how  often  bright  brainy 
fellows  have  know-nothing  wives  and  vice 
versa,  bow  sociable  genial  warm-hearted  men 
have  regular  icebergs  for  their  life  companions  ? 
Well,  the  Wilkinson  home  is  just  the  finest  study 
in  opposites  I  have  ever  known.  She  is  a  born 
critic,  criticizes  everybody  and  everything.  I 
have  never  heard  her  say  a  word  save  by  way 
of  discouragement.  I  doubt  if  she  ever  heard 
a  sermon  that  pleased  her.  I  used  to  think 
sometimes  that  she  did  it  feeling  that  it  was 
incumbent  on  her  to  be  a  balance  to  her  hus- 
band's enthusiasm.  I  had  quite  an  amusing 
experience  with  an  old  college  classmate  of 
mine  last  summer.  I  was  at  the  time  up  in 
the  Provinces,  and  on  my  way  down  to  the 
General  Conference  at  Northfield.  At  Halifax 
[61] 


Letters    to    Edward 


I  went  aboard  the  Boston  boat.  As  an  hour 
or  so  was  to  elapse  before  the  time  for  sailing, 
I  pulled  my  steamer  chair  over  into  a  corner 
and  sat  glancing  through  a  magazine.  Looking 
up  I  was  attracted  by  a  man  staring  at  me 
from  the  other  side  of  the  steamer.  Every 
time  I  lifted  my  eye  and  looked  at  him,  he  was 
looking  at  me.  Even  when  reading  I  was 
conscious  of  his  persistent  regard.  We  clashed 
so  often  that  it  became  almost  embarrassing. 
After  a  little  he  walked  over  and  introduced 
himself.  "  I  do  not  know  what  it  is,"  he  began, 
"  but  there  is  certainly  something  about  your 
eyes  that  is  familiar." 

"  Well,"  I  retorted,  "  I  do  not  know  what  it 
is  either,  but  there  is  something  about  your  hair 
that  impresses  me  the  same  way." 

"  Well,"  he  added,  "  my  name  is  Canston." 

"  And  mine,"  I  volunteered,  "  is ." 

"  Weren't  you  in College  in  1890  ?  " 

"  I  was." 

"  So  was  I." 

Well,  this  was  interesting.  We  had  been  old 
classmates  and  cronies  in  college  together  for 
four  years,  but  had  not  seen  each  other  since 
[62] 


Meeting    an    Old    Friend 

our  graduation  day  twenty-one  winters  ago. 
His  hair  was  still  a  heavy  pompadour  but  quite 
gray,  and  mine  had  grown  thin  and  silvered 
too.  Alas  for  the  transformation  of  the  years. 
Well,  we  sat  down  and  had  a  long  chat  of 
sixteen  or  twenty  hours  all  the  way  to  Boston, 
reviving  old  memories  and  relating  new  expe- 
riences. I  had  not  heard  that  he  had  entered 
the  ministry.  It  seems  that  after  a  two  or  three 
years'  legal  experiment  he  came  into  the  Church, 
and  after  an  abridged  theological  course  he  was 
ordained  a  priest  in  the  Episcopal  fold.  And 
the  most  interesting  part  of  his  story  was  his 
matrimonial  venture.  He  was  thirty-five  be- 
fore he  fell  in  love,  about  your  age,  my  boy,  so 
there  is  hope  for  you  yet.  And  I  want  to  tell 
you  how  it  came  about.  It  seems  he  was  spend- 
ing his  vacation  somewhere  up  in  Cape  Breton. 
If  I  remember  rightly  it  was  Baddeck.  There 
was  a  Pittsburgh  family  summering  there  at 
the  time.  I  have  forgotten  just  how  they  met, 
but  that  doesn't  matter.  Anyway  it  was  love 
at  first  sight — an  only  daughter,  young,  beauti- 
ful and  rich.  Think  of  it !  But  the  amusing 
part  of  his  story  was  his  wedding  trip.  She 
[63] 


Letters    to    Edward 


had  never  heard  her  husband  preach,  and  nat- 
urally was  anxious  for  that  pleasure.  In  Boston 
he  took  her  to  hear  Phillips  Brooks,  but  she  did 
not  like  the  big  Bishop  at  all,  said  he  was  "  too 
torrential  entirely,"  talked  too  fast.  She  could 
not  catch  more  than  half  he  said.  In  New  York 
they  went  to  hear  Talmage  in  the  morning  and 
John  Hall  in  the  afternoon.  But  she  was  dis- 
gusted with  Talmage,  and  very  much  disap- 
pointed in  Hall.  They  spent  a  couple  of  weeks 
here  in  the  town,  during  which  time  they  heard 
Storrs  and  Van  Dyke  and  Joseph  Parker.  I 
think  Parker  was  on  a  visit  to  this  country  just 
at  that  time  in  connection  with  some  Beecher 
anniversary  at  Plymouth  Church.  But  she  did 
not  like  any  of  them.  Storrs  was  too  "rhe- 
torical and  sonorous,"  and  Van  Dyke  too  po- 
etical, and  Parker  too  sensational  or  something. 
Well,  you  know  the  poor  fellow  began  to  get 
nervous.  "  I've  certainly  got  a  proposition  on 
my  hands,"  was  the  way  he  put  it  quietly  to 
himself.  "  She  will  have  to  get  used  to  a  good 
deal  simpler  table  than  this  honeymoon  fare." 
And  the  first  Sunday  at  home  was  quite  an  or- 
deal. He  went  into  his  pulpit  trembling.  He 
[64] 


Dr.  Johnson  and  "Pilgrim's  Progress" 

said  he  had  half  a  mind  to  slip  a  sleeping  pow- 
der that  morning  into  her  coffee  and  send  her 
on  a  short  trip  to  Byloland.  Only  that  he  had 
to  face  the  music  some  time,  and  it  might  as 
well  be  now  as  next  Sunday. 

But  be  not  alarmed.  It  has  turned  out  beau- 
tifully. They  are  just  as  happy  as  children, 
and  now  they  have  two  Canstons  of  their  very 
own.  And  I  have  no  doubt  but  that  she  thinks 
him  a  star  preacher  too,  for  there  is  no  account- 
ing for  tastes,  and  isn't  it  a  fortunate  thing  that 
likes  as  well  as  dislikes  differ  so  ?  Dr.  Johnson 
was  a  keen  judge  of  literature,  but  he  was  not 
infallible.  Did  he  not  consider  "Pilgrim's 
Progress  "  a  stupid  and  barbarous  book  ?  Mat- 
thew Arnold  was  a  critic  of  exquisite  taste  as  a 
rule,  and  we  are  rather  surprised  when  he  tells 
us  that  he  did  not  care  so  very  much  for  Ten- 
nyson or  Shelley  or  Keats  or  even  Shakespeare, 
while  on  the  other  hand  he  praises  in  fulsome 
measure  Guerin,  Joubert,  and  a  number  of  lesser 
lights.  I  was  interested  yesterday,  in  read- 
ing Birrell's  little  volume  "  Obiter  Dicta,"  to 
learn  that  Crabbe  was  the  favorite  poet  of  Byron 
and  Cardinal  Newman  and  Leslie  Stephen  and 
[65] 


Letters    to    Edward 


Swinburne  and  Sir  Walter  Scott.  Pretty 
choice  lot  of  admirers,  don't  you  think  ?  Sir 
"Walter,  it  seems,  asked  Lockhart  to  read  to  him 
the  description  of  the  "  Players  in  the  Borough  " 
when  he  lay  a-dying.  It  quite  startled  me  that 
one  of  the  minor  poets  had  such  an  illustrious 
following.  I  could  not  get  over  it.  And  who 
knows  but  some  of  us  minor  preachers  may  have 
an  admirer  or  two  among  the  elect  ones.  "We 
are  at  least  usually  pretty  sure  of  our  wives, 
and  where  could  be  found  finer  judges  or  more 
competent  critics  ?  But  I  have  so  much  corre- 
spondence to  answer,  and  so  much  extra  work 
has  accumulated  during  my  absence,  that  I  shall 
have  to  stop  short  and  begin  tackling  it  with- 
out a  moment's  delay  So  good-bye  for  the 
present.  "Write  soon. 

And  believe  me 

Ever  most  faithfully  yours, 

MlLCOLUMBUS. 


[66] 


A    Great    Preacher 


Sunday,  June  4, 
MY  DEAR  ED  WARD  : 

This  is  Sunday  evening,  and  although 
all  my  work  is  over,  and  I  have  had  a  fairly 
successful  day  of  it,  yet  I  am  not  in  the  best  of 
humor.  I  preached  twice  and  got  along  as 
well  as  usual,  which  of  course  is  not  saying 
much,  and  it  is  now  almost  ten  o'clock,  but  be- 
fore retiring  I  must  drop  you  a  line  about  my 
day's  experience. 

This  afternoon  I  thought  I  would  walk  around 
and  hear  Gardiner.  I  have  been  anxious  to 
hear  him  ever  since  he  came  to  us,  but  felt  it 
would  be  wiser  to  wait  until  the  curiosity  and 
the  newness  had  worn  off — a  little  bit  at  least. 
So  to-day  I  decided  the  time  had  come  and 
wended  my  way  to  the  big  auditorium  on 

Street.     I  was  politely  shown  to  a  good 

seat  about  the  middle  of  the  church.  I  had 
not  been  seated  more  than  a  minute  or  two, 
when  the  same  usher  that  piloted  me  bowed  a 
young  couple  into  the  pew  directly  in  front, 
thereby  filling  the  seat,  which,  by  the  way,  had 
[67] 


Letters    to    Edward 


six  people  in  it.  During  the  singing  of  the 
first  anthem  in  walks  Lord  Somebody  or  other 
with  his  wife,  striding  up  the  aisle  in  all  his 
touch-me-not  glory,  till  he  came  to  this  same 
pew  into  which  the  young  couple  had  been 
shown,  when,  standing  like  a  statue  at  the 
door,  he  stared  and  glared  as,  in  that  old  story 
of  the  Lamia,  the  sage  eyed  the  serpent.  There 
he  stood  and  just  kept  staring,  till  pierced  by 
the  chill  they  felt  it,  and  cuddled  themselves 
up,  like  children  in  bed  after  hearing  a  ghost 
story.  Just  at  that  moment  the  usher  came 
down  and  asked  the  young  people  if  he  could 
not  take  them  to  a  "  better  seat."  Well,  do 
you  know  I  was  annoyed.  It  just  spoiled  the 
whole  service  for  me.  To  think  that  this  grand 
seigneur  just  wanted  to  walk  in  late  in  order 
to  show  his  fleshly  importance  and  the  carnal 
power  of  his  purse. 

And  I  am  not  condemning  this  church  alone. 
We  are  all  in  the  same  boat.  Our  metropolitan 
churches  are  all  alike.  If  there  is  one  place 
more  than  another  where  we  would  naturally 
expect  to  see  love  and  hospitality  and  brotherly 
kindness  and  good  fellowship  flourish,  surely  it 
[68] 


Everybody    Not    Welcome 

is  inside  the  walls  of  the  sacred  temple  where 
the  golden  rule  is  preached  and  incarnate  love 
is  worshipped.  Inexplicable  as  it  may  seem, 
however,  in  no  Los  Angeles  street  car  is  more 
selfishness  shown  than  in  the  house  of  God. 
And  a  man  who  would  welcome  you  to  his 
palatial  home  on  Riverside  Drive  and  invite 
you  to  his  hospitable  table  every  time  you 
called,  is  often  nothing  less  than  ugly  in  the 
sanctuary.  We  put  on  our  church  bulletins 
"Everybody  welcome,"  and  we  write  it  so 
boldly  that  you  can  read  it  easily  at  night, 
under  the  glare  of  the  electric  bulb,  clear  from 
the  other  corner,  and  yet  it  is  a  glaring  untruth, 
for  everybody  is  not  welcome.  I  declare  to 
you,  Edward,  my  heart  conviction  is  that  the 
Church  of  Christ  can  never  prosper  till  it  has 
ceased  to  be  a  place  where  money  can  buy 
privilege,  and  a  place  where  the  poor  man  is 
reminded  of  his  poverty.  If  there  is  one  thing 
that  will  ever  make  me  a  Roman  Catholic  it 
will  be  this.  In  the  house  of  God,  as  under 
the  sod,  men  are  equal  or  should  be.  I  claim 
that  the  pew  rental  system  is  a  stigma  on  the 
Protestant  Church.  I  claim  that  the  old  Scotch 
[69] 


Letters    to    Edward 


administration,  with  door  and  lock  and  key,  is 
preferable  to  this  bulletin-falsehood  on  the  very 
front  of  God's  temple.  If  a  poor  fellow  walks 
into  a  trap  with  his  eyes  open  he  can  blame 
nobody  but  himself,  but  when  he  walks  in 
blindfolded  he  is  to  be  pitied.  Herrick  Johnson 
says  that  the  reason  why  working  men  do  not 
come  to  church  any  more  is  simply  because 
they  are  not  wanted.  And  in  my  own  mind 
there  is  not  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  about  it. 
We  can  talk  about  it  till  our  eyebrows  get 
white.  Our  General  Assemblies  and  Synods 
and  Conventions  can  lecture  us  from  now  to  the 
twenty-first  century  on  how  to  reach  the 
masses,  but  the  answer  is  just  as  clear  as  the 
wrinkles  on  my  face — the  Church  can  have  the 
masses  when  she  wants  them.  She  must  create 
the  proper  atmosphere.  There  is  a  lack  of 
homeliness  in  the  Church.  The  home  feeling 
that  was  once  so  much  in  evidence  is  well-nigh 
lost.  What  is  the  secret  of  the  estrangement 
of  the  working  man  ?  It  is  just  this,  is  it  not  ? 
He  does  not  feel  at  home  ;  he  feels  uncomfort- 
able; he  feels  unwanted.  There  is  an  un- 
natural atmosphere  to  him,  a  conventional 
[70] 


The    Drawing  Power  of  Brotherhood 

starchness.  What  men  demand  to-day  is  broth- 
erhood. The  feeling  that  the  man  beside  him 
cares  for  him  counts  more  than  the  most  elo- 
quent discourse.  If  church  people  would  just 
drop  their  little  petty  formalisms  and  put  out  a 
hand  of  warmth  and  welcome,  they  would  be 
doing  more  to  fill  empty  pews  with  real  wor- 
shippers than  the  finest  music  on  Manhattan. 
It  is  a  remarkable  fact  that  in  the  primitive 
Church  as  it  came  from  the  apostles  this  was 
the  great  drawing.  Then  later  things  became 
stiff  and  stereotyped,  and  to-day  we  are  suffer- 
ing from  that  unfortunate  turn  of  affairs. 

And  why  won't  people  "  move  over  "  ?  Why 
do  little,  thin,  sallow-faced  ninety  pounders 
want  a  whole  pew  to  themselves  ?  A  witty 
usher  has  said  that  ushering  is  like  driving  a 
nail  into  a  rotten  log.  It  gives  a  little  each 
time— an  inch  or  two — and  if  you  keep  on 
pounding  you  will  at  last  hear  a  crack  and 
then  find  a  big  hole  in  the  centre. 

But  I  have   digressed,  haven't  I  ?    I   was 

going  to  tell  you  my  Gardiner  experience.     I 

liked  him  very  much  indeed,  and  do  you  know 

the   thing  that  impressed   me  most  was  the 

[71] 


Letters    to    Edward 


wonderfully  effective  way  in  which  he  uses  his 
voice.  He  has  a  splendid  speaking  tube  to 
begin  with  and  he  knows  how  to  manage  it. 
Strange,  isn't  it,  that  so  few  of  us  have  mastered 
that  most  effective  secret,  especially  as  they  all 
tell  us  that  it  is  such  a  simple  thing.  The  mis- 
management of  the  voice,  I  am  tempted  to 
think,  has  done  more  to  spoil  good  sermons 
than  any  other  one  thing.  Why  cannot  we 
"  keep  down  "  ?  I  believe  it  was  Berryer,  the 
French  lawyer,  who  remarked  that  he  lost  an 
important  case  on  one  occasion  by  pitching  his 
voice  too  high.  Actors  seem  to  be  the  only 
class  who  know  how  to  speak  in  a  low  conver- 
sational tone.  I  remember  hearing  "Wendell 
Phillips.  There  was  no  straining,  no  scream- 
ing, no  bellowing,  no  gasping,  nothing  preachy. 
Every  word  was  quiet,  mild,  clear-cut,  distinct. 
Every  word  was  honored  and  every  word  went 
home.  He  spoke  for  ninety  minutes,  but  that 
marvellous  voice  never  for  an  instant  lost  its 
edge.  Every  tone  fell  like  a  benediction. 
There  were  no  elocutionary  frills,  no  forcing 
of  the  throat  muscles  as  a  cruel  driver  whips 
his  tired  steed,  and  yet  from  first  to  last  he 
[72] 


The    Secret    of   Quiet    Power 

held  his  audience  as  by  magic.  It  was  a 
triumph  of  vocal  skill.  The  most  of  us,  I 
fear,  have  a  strange  impression  that  vehemence 
is  persuasiveness,  and  that  whatever  else  we 
may  or  may  not  do,  one  thing  at  least  we 
must  do  every  once  in  a  while — we  must  make 
a  great  noise.  Some  are  so  violent  as  to 
awaken  in  my  own  breast  a  suspicion  of  their 
sincerity.  Their  earnestness  is  apt  to  seem 
feigned.  And  I  always  think,  when  listening 
to  them,  of  Lyman  Beecher's  confession,  "  I 
always  holler  when  I  haven't  anything  to 
say."  If  I  were  a  professor  of  homiletics  in 
a  theological  seminary  I  believe  I  would  have 
two  paintings  hung  up  behind  my  desk ;  one, 
that  portrait  representing  Napoleon  with  his 
arms  crossed  and  staring  across  the  water ;  the 
other,  that  famous  drawing  of  Ruben's,  viz., 
"Hercules  beating  the  air."  I  would  have 
them  as  a  silent  sermon  on  the  iinpressiveness 
of  being  calm. 

Last  week  one  of  my  old  classmates  called  to 

see  me.     I  had  not  seen  him  for  twenty  years. 

He  has  a  church  somewhere  in  Virginia.    Well, 

it  was  "Wednesday  afternoon  and  I  said  to  him, 

[73] 


Letters    to    Edward 


"  Cannot  you  wait  over  until  to-morrow  and 
come  to  prayer-meeting  with  me  to-night  and 
give  us  a  little  talk  along  some  line  of  Chris- 
tian experience?"  I  felt  even  when  I  was 
giving  the  invitation  that  I  was  doing  some- 
thing risky,  because  it  is  always  a  more  or  less 
unsafe  thing  to  invite  into  your  pulpit  any  one 
of  whom  you  are  not  sure.  But  he  consented 
and  I  said  to  him  by  way  of  preparation, 
"  Now  we  only  have  a  few  people,  about 
seventy-five  or  eighty  perhaps,  and  I  generally 
give  them  just  a  little  quiet  talk  along  some 
expository  lines."  Well,  I  had  never  heard 
him  preach  before  and  I  can  assure  you  we 
had  a  right  inflammatory  time  of  it.  I  sat  'be- 
side him  on  the  platform  and  I  was  in  mortal 
dread  till  he  was  through.  He  is  one  of  those 
rambustious  fellows,  not  so  much  boisterous, 
although  he  is  by  no  means  calm,  as  violent. 
He  throws  his  arms  around  like  maples  in  a 
whirlwind.  I  once  heard  a  story  of  a  little 
fellow  who  whispered  to  his  mother  in  church 
one  day,  "  Ma,  why  don't  somebody  go  up  and 
fight  him  ? "  He  thought  the  preacher  was 
challenging  the  audience  to  personal  combat. 


Pulpit    Mannerisms 


And  really  if  I  had  not  understood  what  the 
man  was  saying,  I  might  have  imagined  some- 
thing of  the  same  thing.  And  the  funniest 
part  of  it  all  was  that  his  sermon  was  on  peace. 
I  know  you  will  think  I  am  coloring  the  tale, 
but  honor  bright  his  text  was  Philippians  iv.  7. 
Then  he  had  the  most  horrible  trick  of  hitting 
the  Bible.  Oh,  how  that  habit  grates  on  me ! 
When  he  was  about  half  through  his  talk,  I 
was  so  struck  with  the  frequency  of  the  blows 
that  I  began  to  count,  and  would  you  believe 
it,  from  then  to  the  end  he  pelted  that  poor 
book  twenty-nine  times — making  fully  fifty- 
eight  in  all,  I  am  sure,  and  that  in  a  talk  of 
twenty-five  minutes.  It  got  so  on  my  nerves 
at  last  that  I  did  not  hear  a  word  the  man  was 
saying.  I  found  myself  waiting  for  that 
regular,  persistent,  periodical  whack  on  the 
Bible.  One  good  lady  said  to  me  next  day, 
"  The  poor  fellow's  fist  must  be  swollen  quite  a 
bit."  I  wonder  why  some  preachers  have  such 
a  spite  against  the  good  Book.  I  remember 
hearing  of  two  Scotch  lassies  who  were  prais- 
ing their  different  Dominies.  "  I  think  our 
meenisther  did  weel  the  day,"  one  remarked ; 
[75] 


Letters    to    Edward 


"  he  gar'd  the  stoor  flee  oot  o'  the  cushion." 
To  which  the  other  replied,  "  Stoor  oot  o'  the 
cushion,  hout  our  mon  sin'  he  cam  wi  us  has 
driv  the  guts  clean  oot  o'  twa  Bibles  and  three 
hymn-books." 

But,  my  dear  boy,  I  must  close.  I  wish  you 
would  tell  me  more  about  yourself.  You  have 
not  been  writing  a  line  of  late  about  that 
cough.  Now  you  know  how  anxious  I  am.  So 
please  write  me  in  full  in  your  next  how  you 
are  standing  the  work,  how  you  feel  generally, 
whether  or  no  you  are  gaining  in  weight.  Tell 
me  how  you  like  sleeping  outdoors.  Do  tell 
me  all. 

And  believe  me 
Faithfully  yours, 

MILCOLUMBUS. 


[76] 


Meddling  in  Money  Matters 


June  19, 
MY  DEAR  EDWARD  : 

I  received  your  letter  the  other  day,  and 
it  just  did  ray  heart  good.  I  am  so  pleased 
that  you  are  keeping  so  well  and  standing  the 
work  so  splendidly.  For  it  is  no  snap.  I  know 
all  about  it.  The  magnitude  of  the  task  used 
often  to  appal  me.  The  only  thing  that  dis- 
turbed my  joy  and  peace  of  mind  was  in  read- 
ing what  you  say  about  some  of  the  officers 
having  suggested  that  you  take  a  week  off,  and 
go  around  and  see  if  you  cannot  raise  a  little 
money  for  that  proposed  new  chapel  on  the 
south  side.  I  cannot  understand  what  they 
could  have  meant.  For  goodness'  sake  tell  me 
please  who  it  was  that  first  suggested  such  a 
thing.  But  how  glad  I  am  that  you  just  stood 
up  straight  and  said  "  No."  Stick  to  it,  my 
boy.  They  are  a  splendid  body  of  men,  none 
better  anywhere,  only  do  not  let  them  talk  you 
into  the  idea  that  you  can  get  more  money  than 
they  can.  That  may  be  true,  but  even  if  it  is 
true,  your  duty  to  go  out  and  gun  for  dollars 
[77] 


Letters    to    Edward 


does  not  follow.  You  have  not  got  the  time 
even  if  you  had  the  strength  for  any  such  fool- 
ish firing.  I  have  always  taken  the  ground  that 
we  ministers  ought  never  to  have  anything 
whatever  to  do  with  the  financial  burdens  of 
our  churches.  I  declare  I  have  seen  more  pas- 
torates broken  up  from  meddling  in  money 
matters  than  I  would  care  to  mention.  I  have 
known  some  ministers  who  did  not  seem  to  un- 
derstand what  a  Board  of  Trustees  was  for. 

The  trouble,  you  see,  is  that  so  many  in  our 
congregations  think  we  have  not  enough  to  do 
to  keep  us  out  of  mischief.  Why,  didn't  a  good 
deacon  actually  say  to  me  one  day,  "  Doctor,  I 
wish  you  would  call  down  at  my  office  often ; 
I  presume  you  have  a  good  deal  of  time  on  your 
hands  "  ?  At  first  I  thought  he  was  joking. 
But  I  have  since  learned  that  the  impression 
is  quite  wide-spread.  Lots  of  people,  and 
some  of  them  not  illiterate  people  either, 
seem  to  think  that  a  preacher's  life  is  an  ex- 
quisitely easy  life.  A  dear  old  soul  in  my  first 
charge  made  it  her  rule  to  call  on  me  every  Mon- 
day morning  and  spend  an  hour  or  two,  to  keep 
me,  as  she  phrased  it,  "  from  getting  lonely." 
[78] 


Fritterdays 

I  was  young  and  unmarried,  and  in  her  kind 
motherly  way  she  wanted  to  cheer  me  in  my 
solitude  and  help  me  "pass  the  time"  I  could 
not  get  her  to  see  in  any  gentle  way  that  my 
time  was  really  precious,  and  that  my  library 
was  most  excellent  companionship.  "  Fritter- 
days  "  I  believe  Marcus  Dods  called  these  peo- 
ple. Of  course  some  clergymen  like  such 
things.  They  like  to  dabble  in  everything — 
business  matters,  gossip,  family  troubles,  scan- 
dal, lectures,  functions,  after-dinner  speeches, 
everything.  They  like  to  be  consulted  about 
the  pew  rents,  the  annual  coal  supply,  the  tun- 
ing of  the  pipe  organ  and  the  janitor's  salary, 
but  I  have  never  known  of  a  case  where  their 
pulpit  work  was  not  complained  of  more  or  less 
in  consequence.  I  think  that  church  ought  to 
be  shamed  that  puts  its  pastor  on  as  chairman  of 
their  building  committee,  and  the  minister  who 
allows  his  name  to  go  on  is  to  be  pitied  for 
being  so  easily  worked.  Those  meddlesome 
fellows  who  think  that  nothing  about  the 
church  can  be  done  properly  unless  they  have 
a  hand  in  it,  are  not,  in  my  judgment,  worthy 
successors  of  Him  who  told  us  to  be  "  clothed 
[79] 


Letters    to    Edward 


with  humility."  No  minister  has  any  right  to 
get  mixed  up  in  money  matters,  or  business 
matters  of  any  kind  in  the  running  of  his  church. 
At  least  that  is  how  I  feel  about  it.  The  apos- 
tles did  not  do  it.  Why  should  we  ?  Instead 
of  easing  our  people  we  should  try  to  lay  bur- 
dens on  their  shoulders,  and  certainly  no  burden 
belongs  there  so  appropriately  as  the  burden  of 
financial  administration.  The  average  church 
these  days  rivals  a  California  gold-of-Ophir  rose- 
bush anyway  in  the  number  of  its  budding 
societies,  clubs,  circles,  leagues,  guilds,  brigades, 
et  cetera,  cetera ;  and  the  pastor  who  feels  it 
his  bounden  duty  to  put  a  finger  in  all  these  pies  is 
going  to  come  to  grief  homiletically.  His  work  is 
not  commercial  but  spiritual.  Let  him  stick  to 
his  last.  If  he  has  any  time  to  spare  let  him 
put  it  on  his  sermons.  In  the  end  it  will  pay. 
I  declare,  Edward,  the  average  man,  who  pre- 
pares two  discourses  each  week  and  conducts  a 
prayer-meeting,  has  anywhere  from  one  to  five 
funerals,  makes  two  or  three  dozen  pastoral 
calls  on  the  sick  and  needy,  attends  to  I  don't 
know  how  many  committee  meetings,  besides 
seeing  half  a  dozen  book  agents  who  want  a  list 
[80] 


Pulpit    Power 

of  all  the  members  of  his  church  and  their  ad- 
dresses, not  to  speak  of  the  beggars  and  gossips 
and  soreheads  and  all  the  other  agents  who 
claim  a  few  hours  each  week  of  his  time,  and 
then  attending  to  an  avalanche  of  letters  almost 
as  large  as  an  average  country  editor's — that 
man,  it  seems  to  me,  is  crowded  sufficiently 
already  to  forgive  him  if  once  in  a  while  he 
lets  slip  his  morning  devotions. 

But  I  fear  that  I  have  let  my  feelings  run 
away  with  my  pen,  and  anyway  it  was  not 
what  I  started  out  to  write  about  when  I  sat 
down.  I  was  going  to  tell  you  a  little  more  of 
my  Gardiner  experience.  I  have  been  thinking 
of  late  a  great  deal  of  that  strange  something 
or  other  which  we  call  pulpit  power.  There 
certainly  never  was  a  time  when  it  was  so 
much  in  demand,  never  a  time  when  it  com- 
manded such  a  price.  Even  the  little  churches 
that  write  almost  every  week  asking  me  to 
recommend  them  a  "  good  man,"  even  these 
small,  weak,  struggling  organizations  up  and 
down  the  country  have  made  up  their  minds 
that  the  man  who  has  the  honor  of  ministering 
to  them  in  holy  things  must  be  quite  a  good 
[81] 


Letters    to    Edward 


deal  of  a  preacher,  and  the  marvel  of  it  all 
would  seem  to  be  that  our  schools  of  the 
Prophets,  finding  out  how  many  Pauls  and 
Apollos  are  needed,  do  not  turn  out  a  larger 
supply,  when  the  country  is  flooded  with  so 
many  of  us  who  have  apparently  been  fashioned 
in  the  common  mould,  and  run  in  the  com- 
mon ruts.  And  so  I  was  greatly  interested  in 
hearing  Gardiner  only  that  wretched  little 
episode  put  me  in  bad  humor  for  a  while.  But 
I  soon  got  over  it  and  settled  down.  And  I 
was  struck  with  the  man's  style.  What  he 
said  did  not  seem  to  me  so  very  remarkable  as 
the  way  he  said  it,  the  choice  wording  and 
phrasing,  the  confidential  manner,  the  simple 
speech,  the  pleasing  gesture.  He  is  certainly  a 
man  with  a  very  marked  style,  and  it  is  his 
own,  seemed  indeed  as  if  he  sacrificed  every- 
thing to  it.  I  cannot  say  that  his  is  the  "  art 
that  conceals  art,"  for  it  looked  to  me  to  be 
written  out  over  everything.  It  was  almost 
too  prominent.  I  have  never  heard  any  one 
just  like  him.  He  gets  so  very  familiar  and 
yet  without  becoming  offensive.  He  spoke 
just  forty  minutes  but  he  never  once  lost  us. 
[82] 


The    Gift    of   Humor 

He  is  mightily  interesting  and  fresh  and  clear. 
I  would  say  that  he  abhors  the  vague,  almost 
too  much  so,  perhaps  because  I  think  most 
great  preachers  like  to  leave  a  little  margin  for 
the  imaginative  and  the  mystical.  If  I  were  to 
make  a  criticism  it  would  be  that  he  labored  a 
wee  bit  too  hard  to  make  us  see  that  he  was 
logical.  At  every  transition  he  would  sum  up 
what  he  had  said  in  some  definite  concrete  out- 
line. Then,  too,  I  think  he  lacks  the  gift  of 
humor  for  a  man  who  always  preaches,  I  am 
told,  from  forty  minutes  to  an  hour.  There  is 
no  let  down ;  it  is  all  serious  and  thoughtful 
from  start  to  finish.  His  sermon  was  on  the 
ministry  of  cheer,  and  he  gave  me  the  impres- 
sion that  he  felt  he  was  looking  into  the  eyes 
of  tired  people,  people  who  had  come  there  for 
uplift  and  wing  and  tonic,  people  who  wanted 
a  breath  of  spring  and  a  breeze  from  the 
heavenly  places — and  he  certainly  gave  it  to 
us,  sweet  and  bracing  and  cooling.  How 
quickly  our  sermons  age  !  Only  a  little  while 
and  lo  they  are  gray  and  bald  and  toothless. 
Every  time  I  look  down  into  my  own  barrel  I 
am  more  convinced  than  ever  what  a  dry, 
[83] 


Letters    to    Edward 


musty,  old  receptacle  of  a  place  it  is.  But  this 
message  of  his  was  fresh ;  it  was  fragrant ;  it 
was  alive.  If  he  fished  it  out  of  a  pile  of  old 
papers — and  he  most  likely  did,  for  I  don't 
imagine  that  he  has  got  down  to  writing  any- 
thing new  as  yet — he  certainly  in  some  strange 
way,  or  perhaps  out  of  some  recent  experience 
of  his  own,  infused  new  blood  into  it. 

And  really,  Edward,  I  think  the  average 
congregation  will  pardon  almost  anything  if 
what  we  give  them  is  only  warm  and  vital.  I 
remember  hearing  a  story  once  of  a  sculptor 
who  was  comparing  a  celebrated  classical  horse 
with  his  own.  Faults  he  found  everywhere, 
but,  said  he,  "  I  must  confess  the  villainous 
thing  is  living  and  mine  is  not."  Unfortunately 
we  do  not  have  the  opportunity  of  hearing 
many  sermons,  but  speaking  for  myself  I  read 
quite  a  few,  and  the  most  of  them  are  so  life- 
less. I  am  a  little  suspicious  if  we  are  not  all 
a  bit  too  apt  to  bury  our  Master  beneath  a 
snow-bank  of  culture.  Most  of  us  know  the 
Greek  and  the  Hebrew  a  heap  sight  better  than 
we  know  the  human.  I  have  forgotten  who  it 
was  that  said  that  while  Orton  was  lighting  a 
[84] 


The    Secret    of   Personality 

match,  Bunyan  was  setting  the  world  on  fire, 
and  I  often  wonder  if  a  passionate  rather  than 
a  profound  pulpit  is  not  the  need  of  the  hour. 
But  Gardiner's  personality,  I  am  inclined  to 
believe,  is  his  strongest  asset.  He  preaches  out 
of  his  own  heart  and  the  old  becomes  new. 
And  after  all  is  not  that  what  counts  most  ? 
Dante  has  been  called  the  first  great  poet  who 
made  a  poem  out  of  himself.  In  Samson  Ago- 
nistes  Milton  is  his  own  Samson.  In  Coningsby 
Lord  Beaconsfield  is  his  own  Sidonia.  Was 
not  Byron  his  own  Don  Juan?  And  if  we 
preachers  are  going  to  hide  our  personalities 
are  we  not  withholding  our  most  effective 
weapon  ?  But  some  Sunday  afternoon  I  am 
going  to  go  around  again,  and  then  I  will  tell 
you  more.  Just  now  there  is  such  a  mob  of 
people  that  the  place  is  uncomfortable.  Every 
preacher  in  the  city  is  taking  lessons.  I 
counted  twenty-seven  round  about  me  in  my 
own  territory  that  afternoon.  But  after  a 
while  all  this  will  wear  away,  and  then  I'll 
thither  again.  So  good-night.  And  believe 
me,  ever  faithfully  yours, 

MlLCOLUMBUS. 

[85] 


Letters    to    Edward 


July  3, 
MY  DEAR  EDWARD  : 

I  received  a  rather  funny  letter  yester- 
day from  a  church  over  here  on  Long  Island. 
I  preached  for  them  one  Sunday  evening  this 
past  winter,  and  now  they  write  asking  me  to 
recommend  a  man  to  them  for  their  pulpit. 
The  letter  amused  me  somewhat  because  of  the 
last  sentence  it  contained.  This  is  the  sentence, 
"  "We  will  fall  into  line  with  your  recommenda- 
tion, only  he  must  not  be  over  thirty-five  and 
he  must  have  a  sensible  wife."  Well,  I  read  it 
a  couple  of  times  and  then  I  called  Helen  and 
then  we  laughed.  They  are  willing  to  accept 
my  choice  only  he  must  be  more  or  less  of  a 
boy,  and  he  must  have  a  prudent,  politic  help- 
meet. They  will  trust  me  with  everything  but 
two  things,  the  man's  age  and  his  wife.  I  have 
half  a  mind  to  write  and  ask  how  much  the 
wife's  salary  is  to  be.  But  I  guess  I  had  better 
not.  The  last  lady  of  the  manse,  it  seems,  was 
a  regular  mischief-maker  and  got  them  into  all 
sorts  of  hot  water,  and  the  good  old  elders  and 
[86] 


The    Ministry    of   Youth 

deacons  are  not  going  to  get  scalded  again  if 
they  can  help  it.  The  other  day  Barnes  in- 
vited me  out  to  Englewood  to  a  game  of  golf. 
We  were  sitting  at  noon  eating  our  lunch  and 
I  said  to  him,  "  Barnes,  you  remember  Harlan, 
don't  you,  of  our  year  ?  "  "  Yes,  indeed,"  he 
replied.  "I  saw  him  only  the  other  day." 
"  What  has  been  the  trouble  ? "  I  further  in- 
quired. "We  all  considered  him  the  bright 
and  shining  star  of  the  class.  Why  has  he  not 
made  good  ? "  "  Oh,  the  poor  fellow,"  he 
answered  quite  tenderly,  "  has  been  unfortunate 
in  his  marriage.  She  makes  trouble  for  him 
everywhere  he  goes." 

Then  he  must  not  be  over  thirty-five.  The 
dead  line  used  to  be  forty-five,  then  a  little 
later  it  dropped  to  forty,  now  it  seems  to  have 
come  down  another  five  pegs  nearer  the  cradle. 
According  to  the  Constitution  of  the  United 
States  a  man  cannot  be  a  member  of  the  House 
of  Representatives  until  he  is  twenty-five  years 
of  age  nor  a  Senator  until  he  is  thirty.  He 
cannot  be  elected  President  until  he  is  thirty- 
five.  The  Fathers  of  the  Constitution  honored 
age  in  the  framing  of  our  government.  The 
[87] 


Letters    to    Edward 


Good  Book,  too,  reveres  the  hoary  head. 
Moses  was  called  to  lead  the  children  of  Israel 
at  eighty.  Paul  was  an  old  man  when  he  did 
his  greatest  work.  Caleb  and  Joshua  did  their 
best  work  after  the  time  limit  had  passed,  as 
also  did  Daniel,  the  aged  premier  of  Babylon. 
Paul  said  to  Timothy,  "  Let  no  one  despise  thy 
youth,"  but  the  words  would  sound  well-nigh 
satirical  to-day.  Once  gray  hairs  were  a  crown 
of  grace  ;  to-day  I  fear  they  are  fast  becoming 
a  crown  of  disgrace. 

The  first  sine  qua  non  to-day,  it  would  seem, 
is  youth.  No  church  wants  an  old  preacher. 
The  old  warrior  is  carted  off  to  the  ecclesiastical 
bargain  counter  along  with  other  shelf-worn 
and  faded  articles.  Do  you  know  I  really  can- 
not find  it  in  my  heart  sometimes  to  greatly 
blame  some  ministers  for  telling  little  white 
fibs  about  their  age.  One  of  my  dearest 
friends  in  college  was  Will  Creighton.  You 
have  often  heard  me  speak  of  "Will.  His  fa- 
ther had  been  a  minister.  He  said  to  me  the 
day  we  graduated,  after  I  had  told  him  that  I 
was  thinking  very  seriously  of  going  down  to 
Princeton  in  the  fall  to  study  theology,  "  Well, 
[88] 


A    Sad    Example 

I  wish  I  could  see  my  way  clear  to  go  along 
with  you,  but  do  you  know  I  dread  the  fiery 
furnace  my  poor  father  went  through.  His 
salary  was  $700  and  I  remember  the  small 
driblets  in  which  it  was  paid — always  a  month 
or  two  behind.  At  forty-six  he  resigned  his 
church  and  never  seemed  to  be  able  to  secure 
another.  I've  heard  him  say  more  than  once, 
4 1  wish  I  didn't  look  so  old,'  '  I  wish  my  hair 
wasn't  so  white ; '  the  poor  man  became  a  book 
agent  to  support  us  children,  and  died  three 
years  later  of  disappointment,  and  a  broken 
heart  I  guess." 

But  really,  Edward,  I  must  say  I  feel  very 
strongly  on  both  these  matters.  I  think  this 
modern  craze  for  boyism  in  the  pulpit  is  re- 
sponsible for  not  a  little  of  what  we  are  hear- 
ing of  late  about  its  weakness  and  unpopularity 
and  decline.  And  as  for  these  poor  wives  of 
ours — well,  I  wrote  a  few  verses  the  other  day 
for  our  Alpha-Delta,  and  I  am  going  to  send 
them  along.  They  will  tell  you  what  I  think 
exactly.  Some  months  ago  there  came  to  my 
knowledge  the  case  of  a  prominent  minister 
near  New  York  here,  who  was  being  considered 
[89] 


Letters    to    Edward 


quite  seriously  by  a  pulpit  committee  for  a  cer- 
tain church.  They  had  about  made  up  their 
minds  to  present  his  name  to  the  congregation 
for  acceptance,  when  one  of  the  members  sug- 
gested that  possibly  it  would  be  a  wise  move 
to  make  some  inquiries  concerning  the  Mrs.  in 
the  case.  So,  said  brother  of  the  committee 
who  had  raised  the  doubt  was  commissioned  to 
travel  some  several  hundred  miles,  and  search 
on  the  sly  among  the  female  fraternity  of  their 
would-be  pastor's  present  charge  for  any  rumors 
that  might  be  emanating  from  the  manse.  The 
facts  gathered  were  that  she  was  of  a  quiet  and 
retiring  nature,  not  of  much  assistance  to  her 
husband  in  his  official  duties,  which  seemingly 
innocent  information,  curious  to  say,  must  have 
ended  the  case,  for  nothing  more  was  done.  Is 
it  not  cruel  how  some  churches  insist  on  drag- 
ging the  poor  minister's  wife  out  into  the  open 
and  subjecting  her  to  the  criticisms  of  the 
crowd  ?  Is  she  cultured  ?  Is  she  pretty  ?  Is 
she  popular?  Has  she  a  private  income  and 
how  much  ?  Can  she  hold  her  own  against  the 
upper  circles  ?  Is  she  gifted  with  good  sound 
horse  sense  ?  I  am  driven  to  use  that  not  overly 
[90] 


The    Minister's    Wife 

elegant  figure  because  of  what  Armstrong,  the 
Chicago  banker,  said  to  me  the  other  evening. 
I  sat  next  to  him  at  the  Pennsylvania  dinner 
and  he  was  telling  me  of  the  time  that  he  made 
the  change  from  Minneapolis  to  his  present  po- 
sition, and  this  is  how  he  put  it :  "  When  I  was 
in  Minneapolis  I  was  sitting  in  the  seat  driving, 
but  I  hadn't  been  a  week  in  Chicago  when  I 
found  out  that  I  was  in  the  traces."  And  do 
you  know  I  have  about  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  these  good  wives  of  ours  are  in  the  traces 
— and  pulling  the  biggest  part  of  the  load. 

But  really  I  think  it  is  nothing  less  than  a 
shame  how  the  average  congregation  insists 
that  its  minister's  wife  is  public  property.  I 
always  took  it  that  my  wife  was  my  wife,  not 
my  church  assistant.  Why  then  so  indispensa- 
ble that  she  be  orator,  preacher,  organizer,  con- 
gregational visitor,  funeral  director  and  parish 
nurse?  The  scripture  warrant  I  certainly 
would  much  like  to  have  pointed  out  to  me 
where  she  has  been  commissioned  to  superin- 
tend every  society  in  the  congregation.  If  her 
ideas  are  that  woman's  first  duty  is  to  her 
family,  are  they  not  entitled  to  deference  ?  If 
[91] 


Letters    to    Edward 


her  convictions  are  Pauline,  that  woman  should 
keep  silence  in  prayer-meeting,  are  they  not 
worthy  of  respect  ?  If  she  feels  it  her  duty  to 
stay  at  home  and  train  her  little  ones  for  the 
Kingdom  and  make  her  husband  happy,  what 
concern  is  it  of  the  King's  Daughters  ?  If  her 
husband  is  satisfied  it  would  seem  as  if  the 
"Women's  Aid  Society  ought  to  be.  To  be  sure 
if  the  church  wishes  to  hire  her  and  pay  her  a 
stated  stipend  for  making  eight  hundred  or  one 
thousand  calls  every  winter,  then,  of  course, 
that  is  a  different  matter ;  but  so  long  as  things 
are  run  the  way  they  are,  let  us  hope  that  the 
wives  of  our  ministers  will  stand  firm  upon 
their  womanhood  and  independence  and  self- 
respect,  and  refuse  to  be  made  a  battledore 
and  shuttlecock  for  the  whims  and  notions  of  a 
lot  of  whimperers  who  think  they  own  her,  but 
who  if  the  truth  were  only  fully  stated  would 
be  told  that  they  have  no  more  claim  upon  her 
than  they  have  upon  the  wife  of  their  physician 
or  attorney — not  one  whit  more. 

But  here  are  the  lines  I  wrote  for  our  club 
dinner.     And  remember  they  are  not  passed  on 
by  way  of  hint  or  warning.     For  if  the  rumor 
[92] 


The    Minister's    Wife 

that  has  just  come  to  me  be  true  about  the 
little  pool  where  you  are  throwing  the  line,  you 
do  not  need  my  advice.  She  is  a  sweet  little 
soul  and  right  glad  am  I  to  know  that  she 
is  nibbling.  Only,  you  shy  canny  rascal,  why 
did  you  not  tell  me  something  about  it  first  ? 
.  .  .  But  I  suppose  I  will  have  to  forgive 
you  this  time.  I  will  if  you  will  only  tell  me 
everything  in  your  next.  First  of  all,  is  it 
true  ?  Then,  how  much  is  true  ?  How  far 
along  have  things  progressed  ?  I  could  write 
you  a  whole  cyclopedia  of  nice  things.  I  al- 
ways admired  her  and  now  I  admire  you,  my 
boy,  more  than  ever  for  your  good  judgment. 
.  .  .  And  so  here  is  my  hand  and  there  is 
nothing  in  it  but  my  heart.  Fisherman's  luck 
to  you — of  the  right  sort.  Only  better  not 
show  the  ode  till  she's  safely  landed ;  it  might 
scare  her. 

And  believe  me 

Ever  faithfully  yours, 

MILCOLUMBUS. 


[93] 


Letters    to    Edward 


July  17, 1912. 
MY  DEAK  EDWARD  : 

It  has  been  raining  all  day  to-day  and  so 
I  missed  ray  regular  weekly  round  on  the  links. 
There  are  four  of  us  in  Presbytery  who  have 
formed  a  golf  attachment  for  each  other,  and 
we  spend  every  Monday  either  at  Apawamis  or 
Dunwoodie.  We  do  not  mind  the  rain  as  a 
rule ;  in  fact,  last  Monday  we  played  all  day 
holding  up  our  umbrellas  as  we  seesawed  along, 
coming  in  in  the  evening  with  feet  soaking  wet. 
But  this  morning  it  poured  so  that  we  agreed 
by  'phone  that  it  would  be  wiser  not  to  venture 
out.  So  I  have  been  housed  all  day,  and  now 
it  is  four  o'clock.  The  sky  is  still  overcast 
and  there  are  no  signs  of  clearing.  I  think  we 
are  in  for  an  ugly  squally  night. 

I  have  spent  the  whole  day  reading  Benson. 
First  I  took  up  his  recent  volume  on  Ruskin 
and  liked  it  fairly  well,  and  this  afternoon  I 
have  turned  over  about  one  hundred  pages  of 
his  "  Silent  Isle."  I  do  not  think  either  book 
quite  equal  to  some  of  his  others ;  in  fact,  some 
[94J 


Benson 

chapters  in  the  "  Silent  Isle "  I  consider  very 
weak — the  thought,  I  mean.  The  second  chap- 
ter on  love  is  perfect  folderol  to  me,  but  then 
he  is  an  old  bachelor  and  what  can  you  expect  ? 
I  am  afraid  he  is  writing  too  much,  for  I  do 
not  think  any  man  can  turn  out  the  amount  of 
stuff  that  he  is  publishing  every  year  and  not 
fall  down.  It  seems  to  be  our  American  craze 
for  quantity  and  bigness.  Some  of  his  books 
have  helped  me  greatly.  Of  course  his  religious 
views  are  unsatisfying.  He  is  quite  a  contra- 
diction. You  read  one  chapter  and  you  put 
him  down  as  a  devout  believer ;  then  the  next 
chapter  will  be  out  and  out  agnosticism.  He 
is  evidently  drifting.  I  notice  in  this  eighth 
essay  he  claims  that  the  religious  life  is  a  voca- 
tion for  some,  just  as  the  artistic  life  is  a 
vocation  for  others  ;  it  is  simply  one  of  the 
paths  to  God,  and  he  thinks  it  better  that  those 
who  love  public  worship  should  desire  only 
the  companionship  of  like-minded  people  that 
the  harmony  be  not  broken.  But  I  like  the 
man's  spirit  immensely,  and  his  style  is  certainly 
pleasing.  Take,  for  instance,  this  from  the 
very  last  page  I  have  just  read : 
[95] 


Letters    to    Edward 


"  But  what  is,  after  all,  the  deepest  charm 
that  invests  the  old  road  is  the  thought  of  all 
the  sad  and  tender  associations  clothing  it  in 
the  minds  of  so  many  vanished  generations. 
Even  an  old  house  has  a  haunting  grace  enough, 
as  a  place  where  men  have  been  born  and  died, 
have  loved  and  enjoyed  and  suffered;  but  a 
road  like  this,  ceaselessly  trodden  by  the  feet 
of  pilgrims,  all  of  them  with  some  pathetic 
urgency  of  desire  in  their  hearts,  some  hope 
unfulfilled,  some  shadow  of  sickness  or  sin  to 
banish,  some  sorrow  making  havoc  of  home,  is 
touched  by  that  infinite  pathos  that  binds  all 
human  hearts  together  in  the  face  of  the  mys- 
tery of  life.  What  passionate  meetings  with 
despair,  what  eager  uplif  tings  of  desirous  hearts, 
must  have  filled  the  minds  of  the  feeble  and 
travel-worn  companies  that  made  their  slow 
journeys  along  the  grassy  road !  And  one  is 
glad  to  think,  too,  that  there  must  doubtless 
have  been  many  that  returned  gladder  than 
they  came,  with  the  burden  shifted  a  little,  the 
shadow  lessened,  or  at  least  with  new  strength 
to  carry  the  familiar  load.  For  of  this  we  may 
be  sure,  that  however  harshly  we  may  despise 
what  we  call  superstition,  or  however  firmly  we 
may  wave  away  what  we  hold  to  have  been 
all  a  beautiful  mistake,  there  is  some  fruitful 
power  that  dwells  and  lingers  in  places  upon 
which  the  hearts  of  men  have  so  concentred 
their  swift  and  poignant  emotions — for  all,  at 
least,  to  whom  the  soul  is  more  than  the  body, 
and  whose  thoughts  are  not  bounded  and  con- 
fined by  the  mere  material  shapes  among  which, 

[96] 


Benson 

in  the  days  of  our  earthly  limitations,  we  move 
uneasily  to  and  fro." 

Isn't  that  beautiful  ?  Why,  it  seems  to  me 
Euskin  could  not  improve  on  that.  And  his 
whole  manner  is  so  free  and  easy.  There  is 
nothing  of  what  he  himself  calls  the  "  weight 
of  responsibility."  He  moves  with  such  con- 
fidence and  grace  and  charming  simplicity. 
The  artist  is  salient  on  every  page.  He  cer- 
tainly has  it  in  him  to  do  standard  work,  only  I 
wish,  as  I  intimated  already,  that  he  would 
not  try  to  do  so  much. 

But  gloomy  as  the  day  has  been,  and  disap- 
pointed personally  as  I  am  at  being  compelled 
to  be  a  shut-in,  I  am  feeling,  notwithstanding, 
very  happy.  My  work  is  going  along  so  nicely. 
We  had  our  third  communion  yesterday,  and 
ten  united  with  the  church  on  confession — seven 
of  them  being  young  men.  Wasn't  that  splen- 
did ?  Of  course  ten  may  seem  a  small  number 
to  you,  but  you  have  no  idea  what  we  ministers 
have  to  contend  with  here  on  Manhattan.  You 
see  this  is  foreign  missionary  ground.  I  really 
consider  myself  a  foreign  missionary.  And  I 
must  say  I  feel  quite  encouraged.  It  has  all 
[97] 


Letters    to    Edward 


been  done  in  such  a  quiet  way.  We  have  had 
no  extra  services,  no  paid  evangelist,  nothing 
but  the  simple  story  presented  as  effectively  as 
a  very  ordinary  sky  pilot,  with  no  talent  to 
speak  of,  could  deliver  it,  followed  up  by  good 
faithful  personal  work.  I  have  a  capital  assist- 
ant for  that  task,  so  intuitive  and  tactful.  He 
keeps  his  eyes  open  and  watches  for  new  faces, 
and  notes  impressions  and  responses.  Then  we 
have  a  woman  visitor,  a  sort  of  deaconess, 
worth,  too,  her  weight  in  gold.  And,  Edward, 
the  longer  I  am  in  the  work  the  more  I  am 
convinced  that  the  personal  way  is  the  only 
way.  They  have  just  had  a  big  hubbub  over 
here  in .  I  met  one  of  the  pastors  yes- 
terday who  was  one  of  the  front  men  in  the 
movement,  and  I  asked  him  what  the  results 
were.  He  told  me  very  frankly  that  he  was 
disappointed,  that  practically  nobody  but  church 
people  came  near  the  meetings,  and  as  for 
reaching  the  outsider  it  was  a  flat  failure.  The 
trouble  with  all  these  peripatetic  evangelists, 
I  cannot  help  but  feel,  is  that  they  are  all  try- 
ing to  get  up  a  revival,  just  as  rain-storms  were 

at  one  time  thought  to  be  produced  by  the  roar 
[98] 


Getting    Up    a    Revival 

of  cannon  and  smoke  of  guns.  But  this  theory 
we  all  know  has  been  abandoned,  and  the 
church  is  a  long  time,  it  seems  to  me,  in  learn- 
ing that  revivals  cannot  be  got  up  by  human 
excitement  any  more  than  thunder  squalls  or 
earthquakes.  A  church  may  be  as  inactive  as 
a  catacomb,  as  lifeless  as  a  potter's  field,  as  cold 
as  an  iceberg,  doing  nothing  for  the  great  causes 
of  the  Kingdom,  neglectful,  indifferent.  An 
evangelist  is  invited.  A  sort  of  side  show  is  in- 
troduced to  accompany  the  exhibition  of  the 
Cross — something  exciting  to  tickle  the  people ; 
it  may  be  an  assault  on  Unitarianism  or  Ro- 
manism or  the  pretensions  of  the  holiness  life, 
or  perhaps  some  operatic  performer  is  the  draw- 
ing card,  some  ex-fan  or  ex-pugilist.  They 
shout,  sing,  organize,  make  vows,  get  hundreds 
to  sign  cards,  and  report  a  glorious  awakening. 
I  am  not  caricaturing ;  the  dear  only  knows  it 
is  too  solemn  a  thing  for  caricature,  and  too  sad. 
But  we  are  gradually  finding  out  at  last — at 
least  I  think  we  are — that  revivals  are  not 
manufactured.  They  grow  and  they  grow 
slowly.  They  do  not  come  up  gourd-like  in  the 
night,  but  rather,  like  the  oak,  through  weeks 
[99] 


Letters    to    Edward 


and  months  and  sometimes  years.  They  strike 
their  roots  deep  down  into  the  life  of  the  com- 
munity. They  are  harvests  gleaned  after  a 
faithful  sowing  of  the  seed  and  a  patient  tilling 
of  the  soil.  Another  objection  I  have  to  so 
many  of  these  professional  men  on  the  field  is 
the  financial  encumbrance.  There  is  always 
such  a  dunning  for  money,  or  else  the  churches 
are  taxed.  And  with  me  this  rasps.  Why,  the 

campaign  cost  $50,000,  I   understand, 

and  I  understand,  too,  that  they  are  away  be- 
hind. The  whole  thing  is  too  commercial. 
There  is  a  tendency  to  exaggerate  the  impor- 
tance of  an  intricate  machinery.  Immediate  re- 
sults are  imperative,  and  to  this  end  all  must 
be  sacrificed.  It  may  be  necessary  to  improve 
a  tale  to  make  it  telling.  Numbering  must  not 
be  done  too  conscientiously  lest  there  seem  a 
lack  of  sheaves.  And  then,  anyway,  I  think 
the  whole  crusade  makes  for  a  type  of  piety 
that  is  emotional  rather  than  rational.  Do  not 
mistake  me,  please.  I  am  not  intimating  that 
there  is  no  place  for  feeling  in  our  religious 
work,  for  I  think  there  is,  a  very  large  place, 
only  it  is  not,  and  never  should  be  given,  the 
[100] 


Professional    Evangelism 

chief  place.  Weeping  over  a  string  of  pathetic 
stories  may  be  quite  commendable,  but  the  tears 
as  a  rule  do  not  go  down  very  deep  nor  last 
very  long.  Only  the  surface  of  the  life  is 
moved.  It  is  a  very  simple  matter  to  make 
some  folks  weep.  They  can  almost  be  made  to 
weep  over  a  table  of  logarithms  if  the  voice  is 
plaintive.  Emotion  is  like  steam  in  the  boiler. 
If  it  drives  the  locomotive,  well  and  good,  but 
if  it  only  puffs  and  blows  and  hisses,  and  does 
not  pull  us  along  the  path  of  duty,  then  it  is 
harmful.  Oh,  I  have  seen  so  much  that  is 
distasteful  to  me  about  it  all  that  I  guess  I 
am  hopelessly  prejudiced.  I  have  seen  revival 
meetings  held.  I  have  seen  the  evangelist  es- 
corted to  the  train  by  crowds  of  converts  sing- 
ing gospel  hymns  that  are  anything  but  digni- 
fied— "  Nearer  My  God  to  Thee,"  for  instance, 
to  the  tune  of  "  Robin  Adair,"  and  a  lot  of  other 
doggerel  rhymes  and  sentimental  ditties.  I 
have  heard  them  say,  "  We  must  carry  this  en- 
thusiasm into  the  Church."  I  have  seen  them 
start  with  a  great  blare  of  horns  and  beating  of 
drums.  Six  months  passed  by  and  the  prayer- 
meeting  was  again  in  the  hands  of  old  "  Father 
[101] 


Letters    to    Edward 


Faithful  and  good  Sister  Silent,"  and  their  re- 
ligious life  was  deader,  if  that  were  possible, 
than  ever. 

But  I  did  not  mean  to  blow  my  own  trumpet 
when  I  started  out,  nor  to  decry  other  methods. 
No  doubt  there  is  good  in  all  and  I  will  try 
hard  not  to  be  cynical.  Only  I  do  like  my 
own  quieter  way — and  yours — so  much  better. 
Next  week  I  am  going  off  on  my  vacation.  I 
do  not  feel  tired  but  I  will  be  glad  for  the 
rest.  The  life  here  is  awfully  strenuous.  We 
want  to  get  our  children  out  into  the  fields 
where  they  can  climb  the  trees  and  jump  the 
fences  and  play  with  the  foals  and  the  calves 
and  the  chickens.  This  is  a  dreadful  place  to 
train  up  children.  When  I  watch  the  boys 
playing  baseball  here  on  the  avenue,  and  dodg- 
ing the  trolley-cars  and  automobiles,  it  becomes 
really  pathetic.  No  one  with  a  family  of  little 
ones  ought  ever  to  live  in  New  York  if  he  can 
help  it.  The  life  is  too  unnatural  for  a  child. 
So,  till  you  hear  from  me  again,  bye-bye.  Ad- 
dress me  at  the  old  farm.  And  believe  me 
Ever  faithfully  yours, 

MlLCOLUMBUS. 
[102] 


At    the    Old    Home 


Monday,  July  31, 
MY  DEAR  EDWARD  : 

Well,  here  I  am  away  up  at  the  old 
home  and  in  the  same  old  house  where  I  was 
born — I  will  not  say  how  many  years  ago.  Of 
course  I  know  you  know,  but  then  I  have  come 
to  that  point  where  I  prefer  not  to  dwell  on 
the  multiplying  years.  Father  and  mother  are 
still  here  and  right  smart  too  for  octogenarians, 
and  my  little  boy  whom  I  have  taken  along 
with  me  is  intensely  interested  in  everything, 
especially  the  haymow  where  his  father  used 
to  play  hide-and-seek,  and  the  stream  where  he 
used  to  fish,  and  the  cherry  trees  he  used  to 
climb,  and  the  old  grange  generally. 

I  find  things  pretty  much  as  they  were  when 
I  last  visited  here  five  years  ago.  The  farm 
has  one  hundred  acres,  about  half  of  which  is 
still  timbered.  As  I  sit  writing  I  can  see,  and 
almost  hear,  the  blown  fire  of  the  smithy  down 
in  the  hollow.  I  can  see  close  by  the  tall  pine 
tree  which  I  used  to  climb,  and  from  one  of  the 
limbs  of  which  I  once  fell  and  broke  my  wrist, 
[103] 


Letters    to    Edward 


and  I  can  see  the  pale  fallow  on  the  farther 
side  of  the  fen  with  its  little  brook  curving 
through  it,  where  I  used  to  hunt  for  frogs 
and  muskrats,  and  I  can  see  over  on  the  other 
hill  the  old  well  with  its  moss-covered  bucket, 
and  I  can  see  the  sheep  pasturing  far  off  on  the 
downs.  What  a  peaceful  bucolic  picture  it  all 
is !  But  I  cannot  keep  down  a  swelling  of  sad- 
ness. The  old  place  is  beginning  to  look  un- 
kempt and  neglected.  The  barns  are  getting 
very  black  and  dingy  looking ;  the  fences  need 
whitewashing ;  the  cart  and  truck  and  wheel- 
barrow and  all  the  implements  I  can  see  are 
beginning  to  show  signs  of  wear  and  weather. 
I  find  the  country  so  still  and  lonely ;  seems  as 
if  everything  were  sound  asleep.  Last  night 
the  air  was  so  calm  that  not  even  the  poplar 
leaves  were  moving.  In  a  wakeful  mood  long 
after  midnight  I  thought  I  could  almost  hear 
the  old  elm  tree,  just  by  my  window,  breathe. 
And  then  so  many  of  the  old  faces  are  missing ! 
There  is  not  a  corner  of  the  place  that  is  not 
transfigured  by  a  touch  of  pathos  and  sweet- 
ness and  tender  memories.  In  the  twilight  I 
find  myself  unconsciously  humming  an  old  song 
[104] 


At    the    Old    Home 


that  we  boys  and  girls  used  to  sing  long,  long  ago 
without  knowing  much  of  its  meaning  at  the 
time. 

"  Where  is  now  the  merry  party 
I  remember  long  ago, 
Laughing  round  the  Christmas  fireside, 
Brightened  by  its  ruddy  glow!" 

But  I  am  afraid  you  will  think  me  in  a 
rather  disconsolate  mood  this  morning,  but  not 
so.  Just  a  bit  sentimental  after  my  long 
absence  and  return.  You  do  not  wonder,  do 
you  ?  We  arrived  Saturday  evening  and  did 
not  have  time  to  unpack  our  things  until  a 
little  while  ago.  I  always  have  such  a  task 
deciding  on  the  literature  I  had  better  take  on 
my  summer  outing,  because  I  feel  that  a  dozen 
books  or  so  is  about  all  I  ought  to  tax  my 
trunk  with,  considering  the  amount  of  clothing, 
and  playthings  for  the  boy,  and  other  impedi- 
menta that  my  wife  insists  on  our  bringing. 
So  this  time  I  consulted  Ex-President  Eliot  so 
as  to  find  out  what  not  to  take,  and  boiled  the 
number  down  to  ten.  I  think  it  was  Bronson 
Alcott,  was  it  not,  who  once  remarked  that 
Thoreau  was  a  good  fellow  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  in  order  to  learn  how  not  to 
[105] 


Letters    to    Edward 


live.  First  of  all  I  decided  on  a  volume  of 
Brierley's.  So  I  threw  in  his  "  Life  and  the 
Ideal."  I  like  Brierley  immensely.  I  think 
he  is  wonderfully  fresh  and  suggestive  and  full 
of  good  sermon  stuff.  He  is  quite  a  consider- 
able scientist,  although  a  little  careless  some- 
times, I  regret  to  say,  in  his  facts ;  but  then 
that  is  not  so  important  a  matter  to  an  essayist. 
For  instance,  I  don't  know  how  many  times  in 
his  books  he  speaks  of  the  temperature  of  the 
sun  as  being  so  many  million  degrees  Fahren- 
heit (I  forget  the  exact  number)  but  everybody 
knows  that  that  old  theory  has  been  long  since 
discarded.  It  is  not  anywhere  near  the  million 
mark;  sixty  thousand,  I  understand,  is  more 
nearly  the  reckoning  now.  I  once  asked  Pro- 
fessor Hale  about  it  and  if  I  remember  correctly 
these  were  his  figures.  Then  I  have  four  other 
volumes  of  essays  from  which  you  will  infer, 
and  correctly,  that  the  essay  is  my  favorite 
form  of  reading — Benson,  Amiel,  Montaigne 
and  Hazlitt's  "  Table  Talk."  Then  I  have  one 
volume  of  Joseph  Parker.  Parker  is  to  me 
the  Prince  of  preachers.  None  like  him !  I 
think  he  is  the  most  wonderful  pulpit  orator  in 
[106] 


Joseph    Parker 

the  history  of  the  Christian  church.  I  know 
he  was  dramatic  and  eccentric  and  odd,  and  I 
guess  there  is  no  doubt  that  he  played  more  or 
less  to  the  gallery,  but  for  sheer  brain-power 
and  interpretation  and  spiritual  insight  and 
originality  and  epigram  and  human  interest, 
give  me  Parker  every  time.  I  was  in  London 
once  for  three  months.  The  first  two  months 
I  went  to  hear  every  great  divine  in  the  city ; 
three  or  four  times  on  Sundays,  and  between 
prayer-meetings  and  harvest  homes,  etc.,  as 
many  times  more  during  the  week ;  but  the 
last  month  Parker  was  all  I  wanted,  twice  on 
Sunday  and  every  Thursday  noon.  I  felt  that 
they  were  all  pygmies  compared  with  this 
mighty  inimitable  man.  And  his  books  have 
inspired  me  since  more  than  the  books  of  any 
other  homilist.  I  know  that  I  have  copied  him 
more  or  less.  I  can  see  him  now  shaking  that 
great  shaggy  head,  with  its  little  eyes  like  an 
elephant's.  I  can  almost  feel  that  funny  sensa- 
tion he  used  to  send  through  me  in  those  cli- 
maxes of  his.  Then  in  the  poetical  line  I  have 
brought  along  a  volume  of  Keats.  He  is,  I 
rather  think,  my  favorite  poet.  And  as  for 
[107] 


Letters    to    Edward 


novels — well,  I  am  pretty  slack  on  novels  but 
I  threw  in  "  Tom  Jones,"  to  read  for  the 
fourth  time.  Most  ministers,  I  know,  take  not 
much  else  on  their  vacations,  but  as  for  my- 
self I  get  very  little  good  out  of  them. 
The  last  novel  I  read  that  I  thoroughly  en- 
joyed was  "  David  Harum."  A  year  or  so 
ago  I  picked  up  a  story  of  David  Graham 
Phillips',  "  Old  Wives  for  New,"  but  I  got  so 
disgusted  with  it  before  I  was  half  through 
that  I  threw  it  down  and  never  finished  it. 
No  doubt  everybody  ought  to  read  a  good 
wholesome  story  occasionally,  but  when  I 
walked  through  a  bookstore  in  Boston  the 
other  day  and  saw  the  stacks  of  novels  piled 
around,  I  judged  that  the  clerks  could  hardly 
be  selling  much  of  anything  else,  and  when  I 
glance  at  the  book  reviews  in  our  newspaper 
supplements,  and  note  that  almost  all  are  re- 
views of  novels,  one  almost  feels  like  asking  if 
these  are  the  only  things  published  that  are 
worth  reviewing.  We  are  becoming  swamped 
with  a  flood  of  foolish  romance.  And  then 
once  more  I  have  a  volume  of  John  Burroughs' 
and  my  "  Westcott  and  Hort."  So  now  what 
[108] 


A    Gaelic    Sermon 


do   you   think  of  my  five  foot  shelf  for  a 
summer's  reading? 

Yesterday  morning,  it  being  Sunday,  of 
course  we  all  went  to  church.  I  enjoyed  meet- 
ing old  friends.  The  congregation  is  a  typical 
country  one,  descendants  of  the  Scotch  High- 
landers who  came  out  in  the  Polly  in  1805. 
There  is  a  Gaelic  service  at  ten  o'  clock  followed 
by  one  in  English  at  eleven.  I  attended  both 
and  although  I  did  not  understand  a  word  of 
the  former,  still  I  quite  enjoyed  it.  They 
follow  the  old  Highland  custom  of  a  precentor 
who  first  recites  two  lines  of  the  stanza  in  a 
singsong  sort  of  way,  and  then  leads  them  in 
the  singing  of  these  lines.  It  is  very  quaint 
and  doleful,  especially  so  as  Gaelic  tunes  are 
usually  on  the  minor  key.  I  cannot  say  that 
the  English  service  was  very  profitable.  The 
minister  announced  a  text  but  I  am  afraid  he 
did  not  stick  to  it  very  long.  He  reminded 
me  of  the  little  urchin  who  when  asked  why  he 
stood  throwing  stones  into  the  wood  replied 
that  he  supposed  there  were  birds  in  there 
somewhere  and  perhaps  he  would  hit  one  if  he 
kept  on  firing.  The  text  was,  "What  I  say 
[109] 


Letters    to    Edward 


unto  you  I  say  unto  all,  watch,"  and  his  line  of 
thought  was,  watch  what  habits  you  form, 
watch  what  companions  you  choose,  watch  what 
books  you  read,  all  of  which,  no  doubt,  is  in 
the  passage  if  we  first  interpolate  as  the  critics 
say.  I  think  it  is  Baedeker  who  says  of  a  cer- 
tain town  in  Italy,  "  You  will  find  fresh  eggs 
here  and  butter  and  milk  and  excellent  fruit 
provided  you  carry  these  delicacies  along  with 
you."  But  I  am  not  so  sure  if  I  would  not 
rather  have  my  minister  choose  a  text  and 
say  nothing  more  about  it  than  one  of  those 
ultra  broad  fellows  who  gives  it  to  you  first  in 
Hebrew,  then  in  the  Septuagint,  then  doctored 
up  according  to  the  latest  Higher  Criticism, 
and  then  finally  concluding  that  it  is  not  true 
anyway,  being  an  interpolation  of  some  red- 
actor or  other.  I  am  getting  to  feel  that  I  do 
not  much  care  how  far  off  a  man  wanders  in 
his  sermon  if  he  only  wanders  to  my  heart. 
But  I  am  going  to  close  and  go  out  and  do  some 
more  exploring  round  the  old  farm.  Good-bye. 
And  believe  me 

Ever  faithfully  yours, 

MILCOLUMBUS. 
[110] 


Amiel 


August  7,  1912. 
MY  DEAR  EDWAED  : 

I  have  been  reading  Amiel  all  the  week 
and  I  cannot  tell  you  how  much  I  am  enjoying 
him.  Get  the  book  by  all  means  and  eat  it ; 
it  is  the  best  food  I  have  tasted  in  many  a  day. 
The  edition  I  have  is  the  one  translated  by  Mrs. 
Humphrey  Ward.  She  prefaces  it  with  a  most 
helpful  introduction. 

I  am  so  glad  that  I  took  the  book  along ;  in 
fact,  I  have  not  been  reading  very  much  of 
anything  else.  I  was  telling  you  in  my  last 
what  a  job  I  have  every  summer  in  getting 
ready  to  migrate  up  here.  What  clothes  to 
take  along,  whether  or  no  to  put  my  Prince 
Albert  in  the  trunk  and  my  silk  hat,  how  many 
suits  I  shall  likely  require !  Will  I  need  my 
summer  overcoat  or  my  winter  one?  What 
about  golf  bags  and  tennis  rackets  and  bathing 
suits  ?  And  then  the  books  !  That,  after  all, 
is  the  biggest  problem.  For  books  are  ex- 
asperatingly  heavy  in  the  checking  room.  Some 
summers  ago  when  about  to  cross  the  continent 
[111] 


Letters    to    Edward 


I  was  so  overfreighted,  or  overweighted  shall  I 
say,  that  when  the  baggageman  said,  "  Six 
dollars  excess,  please,"  I  felt  like  telling  him  to 
confiscate  the  whole  Saratoga.  I  do  not  know 
whether  or  not  I  am  different  from  other  people, 
but  I  certainly  do  dislike  to  pay  the  railroads 
excess  baggage.  It  makes  me  feel  somewhat 
like  when  one's  child  is  crossing  the  boundary 
line  between  twelve  and  thirteen.  My  little 
fellow  was  born  on  the  twenty-ninth  of  June, 
and  when  a  year  ago,  on  the  third  day  of  July, 
he  and  I  were  starting  for  Canada  and  I  was 
over  in  Cook's  office  purchasing  my  ticket,  the 
agent  asked  me  how  old  he  was.  I  said  twelve 
years  and  three  days.  It  was  only  three  days 
but  it  made  a  difference  of  twelve  dollars. 

Well,  anyway,  as  I  told  you  already,  I  only 
brought  ten  this  time,  and  eight  of  these  are 
still  in  the  trunk.  The  only  ones  I  have  fished 
out  as  yet  are  Amiel  and  my  "  Westcott  and 
Hort."  ...  I  believe  it  is  now  getting  to 
be  pretty  generally  admitted  that  the  "  Journal " 
has  won  a  permanent  place  in  literature.  It  is 
one  of  the  books  that  is  bound  to  live,  and  it  is 
going  to  live  because,  like  the  Scriptures,  it  is  a 
[112] 


Amiel 

living  book.  It  will  not  live  much  perhaps  in 
the  public  eye ;  it  will  never  be  one  of  the  ten 
best  sellers,  but  it  is  a  book  in  which  a  germ  of 
life  has  been  silently  and,  I  was  going  to  say, 
secretly  deposited.  ...  I  am  thoroughly 
enjoying  it.  Amiel  is  the  Hamlet  of  the  inner 
life. 

I  think  one  secret  of  the  charm  of  these  pages 
is  due  to  the  accident  of  birth  and  to  the  unique 
opportunities  the  author  had  in  the  matter  of 
study  and  training.  He  was  born,  as  you  of 
course  know,  and  spent  his  early  life,  in  the  re- 
ligious atmosphere  of  Geneva ;  then  he  was  ed- 
ucated in  Berlin  where  German  thought  and 
style  and  methods  vitally  affected  his  dreamy 
nature  and  innate  mysticism.  And  then  he  was 
of  French  descent,  writing  entirely  in  the 
French  language  and  knowing  intimately  the 
French  character.  It  was  a  wonderful  combi- 
nation. Renan  and  Bourget  both  claim  that  a 
great  deal  of  the  success  of  the  "  Journal "  is 
due  to  the  mingling  of  German  and  French  ele- 
ments which  it  contains. 

I  was  very  much  interested  in  reading  that 
as  a  professor  he  made  no  mark,  that  his  lee- 
[113] 


Letters    to    Edward 


tures  were  considered  dry  and  uninteresting. 
One  of  his  pupils,  M.  Alphonse  Kivier,  until 
lately  professor  of  international  law  in  the  Uni- 
versity of  Brussels,  writes  these  words,  "We 
never  learnt  to  appreciate  him  at  his  true  worth. 
"We  did  justice  no  doubt  to  his  genius,  his  vast 
stores  of  reading.  We  liked  him  for  his  in- 
dulgences, his  kindly  wit.  But  I  look  back 
without  any  sense  of  pleasure  to  his  lectures." 

Isn't  it  odd,  Edward,  how  this  is  not  infre- 
quently the  case  with  some  of  our  brethren  of 

the  cloth  ?  There's  our  mutual  friend . 

I  doubt  if  I  ever  heard  a  more  delightful  con- 
versationalist. He  can  charm  little  groups 
around  the  dinner  table  by  the  hour,  but  the 
very  moment  he  climbs  into  a  pulpit  all  that 
freshness  and  lightness  of  touch  seem  to  take 
flight.  I  never  could  quite  understand  it.  He 
reminds  me  of  a  nasturtium  leaf  when  dipped 
in  water ;  it  comes  out  dry  as  sawdust.  And 
here  is  this  wonderful  genius  who  in  his  "  Jour- 
nal "  is  perfectly  fascinating  and  yet  in  the  lec- 
ture room,  it  seems,  he  was  simply  a  "  dusty 
compendium  of  Hegelian  philosophy." 

I  do  not  know  just  what  it  is  about  the  book 
[114] 


Amiel 

that  has  captivated  me,  whether  it  is  the  strain 
of  Puritanism  I  find  in  it,  or  the  tone  of  mel- 
ancholy, or  the  speculative  hunger,  or  the 
strange  self-distrust  and  bashfulness  of  the 
man,  or  the  atticism  and  splendor  of  expression, 
or  what  it  is.  I  think  most  likely  that  Scherer 
is  right  when  he  says  that  in  these  chapters  "  I 
find  myself."  On  every  page  one  feels  like 
saying,  "  That  fits  me  exactly."  The  author  is 
describing  himself  and  so  too  us  all.  I  guess  the 
inner  life  in  all  of  us  is  pretty  much  the  same. 

I  presume  you  know  the  history  of  the  book 
and  how  it  came  to  be.  It  was  in  1849,  just  as 
he  entered  on  his  professorship  at  Geneva,  that 
he  started  it.  It  is  not  exactly  a  diary  or 
journal  although  that  is  what  he  named  it. 
There  are  leaps  of  days  and  sometimes  weeks 
when  nothing  is  recorded.  He  kept  it  up  for 
thirty  years.  It  runs  to  17,000  folio  pages.  He 
records  the  incidents  of  each  day,  his  observa- 
tions, the  books  he  is  reading  and  how  they  ap- 
pealed to  him.  He  discusses  politics,  religion, 
literature,  music,  art,  science.  He  gossips 
about  the  great  men  he  meets.  He  never  mar- 
ried and  the  manuscript  was  a  sort  of  lifelong 
[115] 


Letters    to    Edward 


companion  to  him.  He  opens  his  heart  in  it  as 
to  a  dear  friend.  It  contains  the  "  confidences 
and  secrets  of  a  solitary  thinker."  He  died  in 
1881  and  the  first  volume  of  the  book  was  not 
published  until  the  year  following.  No  one 
knew  of  the  existence  of  such  a  manuscript  un- 
til a  few  months  after  the  author  had  passed 
away,  when  it  fell  into  the  hands  of  his  literary 
heirs.  Thus  was  brought  to  light  another 
matchless  classic  of  the  soul. 

It  interested  me  very  much  too  when  I  read 
that  he  was  looked  upon  in  life  as  a  disappoint- 
ment by  his  friends.  They  considered  him  an  ex- 
ceedingly able  mind  who  was  capable  of  bring- 
ing out  some  magnum  opus,  but  all  he  did  was 
publish  a  few  volumes  of  poems  which  never 
ranked  very  high,  and  four  or  five  scattered 
essays,  one  on  Madame  de  Stae'l,  one  on  Rous- 
seau, one  on  the  history  of  the  Geneva  College, 
and  one  on  the  literature  of  French-speaking 
Switzerland.  That  was  his  whole  literary  out- 
put. As  his  biographer  puts  it,  "  We  could  not 
understand  how  it  was  that  a  man  so  gifted 
produced  nothing  but  trivialities."  Mrs.  "Ward 
calls  it  "  the  sterility  of  genius." 
[116] 


Amiel 

Now  I  am  going  to  send  it  to  you  and  I 
want  you  to  read  it,  and  when  you  read  it  I 
rather  think  it  will  be  the  religious  note  that 
will  appeal  to  you.  The  book  is  an  analysis  of 
the  human  soul  from  the  view-point  of  philos- 
ophy, but  it  is  just  full  too  of  the  strain  of 
personal  religion.  His  head  at  times  is  far 
from  orthodoxy  and  yet  his  heart  clings  to  old 
traditions.  Time  and  again  he  declares  that 
religion  can  never  be  replaced  by  philosophy. 
"  The  redemption  of  the  intellect  is  not  the  re- 
demption of  the  heart,"  he  says ;  "  it  is  the  part 
for  the  whole."  And  again,  "  The  best  test  of 
the  profundity  of  any  religious  doctrine  is  its 
conception  of  sin.  To  die  unto  sin  is  the  highest 
solution  of  the  inner  life." 

I  think  the  story  of  his  last  illness  is  one  of 
the  bravest  and  sweetest  I  have  ever  come 
across.  He  had  never  been  a  strong  man,  and 
at  fifty-three  he  received  from  his  physician  his 
death  warrant.  For  seven  long  years  he  lin- 
gered,— dying  by  inches  and  knowing  it  all  the 
while.  The  journal,  however,  during  all  this 
time  never  grows  morbid.  It  keeps  up  its 
interest  in  everything.  Here  is  a  record 
[117] 


Letters    to    Edward 


written  in  January  (he  died  in  April) :  "  A 
terrible  night.  For  three  or  four  hours  I 
struggled  against  suffocation  and  looked  death 
in  the  face.  It  is  clear  that  what  awaits  me  is 
suffocation.  I  shall  die  by  choking.  I  should 
not  have  chosen  such  a  death  but  when  there 
is  no  option  one  must  simply  resign  oneself. 
Spinoza  expired  in  the  presence  of  the  doctor 
whom  he  had  sent  for.  I  must  familiarize  my- 
self with  the  idea  of  dying  unexpectedly.  My 
fate  lacks  beauty,  grandeur,  poetry.  .  .  . 
Leibnitz  was  accompanied  to  his  grave  by  his 
servant  only.  But  the  great  mystery  cannot 
be  shared.  '  Thy  will  not  mine  be  done.' " 
Ever  faithfully  yours, 

MILCOLUMBUS. 


[118] 


A    Country    Tea    Party 


Monday,  August  11),, 
MY  DEAR  EDWARD  : 

I  had  another  rather  startling  experience 
to-day.  I  went  to  a  tea  party.  I  do  not  sup- 
pose you  know  what  a  country  tea  party  is. 
Well,  our  church  here  decided  last  spring  that 
they  ought  to  overhaul  and  re-decorate  the 
manse  for  their  new  minister,  but  where  the 
necessary  $1,000.00  was  to  come  from  caused 
almost  a  wavering  debate.  At  last,  however, 
after  a  long  discussion,  they  resolved  upon  a 
tea  party  to  be  held  some  time  in  midsummer, 
when  the  crops  would  all  be  in,  and  the  farmers 
more  or  less  free-footed.  This  is  how  they 
manage  it.  Forty  or  fifty  of  the  leading 
women  of  the  parish  go  in  pairs  or  trios  and 
agree  to  take  a  table.  They  bake  and  beg 
enough  food  to  feed  a  multitude  of  about  the 
gospel  narrative  size,  and  on  the  appointed  day 
you  find  yourself  in  a  large  twenty  or  thirty 
acre  field  with  tents  and  booths  and  drinking 
fountains  and  roulette  tables  and  gypsy  camps 
and  all  sorts  of  games  and  gambols — greasy 
[119] 


Letters    to    Edward 


poles,  tugs-of-war,  merry-go-rounds,  some  pitch- 
ing quoits,  some  putting  the  shot,  some  throw- 
ing the  hammer,  some  tilting,  some  swinging, 
some  strolling  around  with  their  sweethearts. 
It  is  the  great  festal  day  of  the  season.  Well, 
I  rode  over  to  the  theatre  of  interest  this  after- 
noon. As  we  approached  I  could  hear  the 
voices  clear  and  jocund  on  the  soft  summer  air. 
Everything  was  bright  and  vivacious.  The 
bag-pipes  were  playing,  the  violins  were  ac- 
companying the  merry  dancers.  Such  crowds 
and  oh,  dear,  such  horrible  dust !  It  seemed 
as  if  everybody  in  this  section  had  gravitated 
to  this  thirty -acre  field,  all  sprinkled  with 
buttercups  and  carpeted  with  a  delicate  green, 
while  the  daisies  were  all  about  in  bewildering 
profusion.  I  counted  more  than  three  hun- 
dred horses  and  carriages  tied  to  the  fences 
along  the  woods  that  circumscribed  the  field. 
There  was  a  clump  of  tall  poplars  on  the 
shoulder  of  the  gentle  hill,  and  it  too  was  black 
with  vehicles  of  every  description.  I  started 
to  roam  round  among  the  booths  and  watch 
the  people,  studying  the  rustic  styles,  surveying 
gestures  and  glances,  when  all  of  a  sudden  I 
[120] 


A    Country    Tea    Party 

caught  a  glimpse  of  a  face  that  I  felt  positive  I 
had  seen  before. 

"  Sometimes  our  dreams  return  so  real 
That  we  can't  but  believe  them  true ; 
Sometimes  we  meet  a  face  familiar 
And  wonder  when  and  where  and  who." 

But  do  what  I  would  I  could  not  place  the 
features.  I  tried  every  trick  of  memory  and 
recall,  but  nothing  seemed  to  make  the  vague 
impression  definite.  It  was  not  until  late  in 
the  afternoon  when  I  had  ceased  trying,  and 
she  again  burst  suddenly  on  me  as  I  was  turn- 
ing the  corner  of  a  spruce  spinny  that  grew  in 
a  corner  of  the  pasture,  that  in  a  happy  flash  I 
remembered  our  former  meeting  and  stepped 
up  and  introduced  myself.  And  this  brings 
me  to  the  beginning  of  my  story. 

One  "Wednesday  afternoon  last  winter  I  was 
visited  by  a  young  lady  in  the  study  of  my 
church.  She  handed  me  her  card  and  began 
by  apologizing  for  the  intrusion.  Glancing  at 
the  card  I  noticed  that  she  was  a  medical 
practitioner.  It  read  Dr.  Marion  DeWitt 
Gregory  with  address  and  office  hours.  She 
was  young,  not  more  than  twenty-seven  or 
[121] 


Letters    to    Edward 


twenty-eight  I  guessed,  and  beautifully 
gowned.  She  had  large  Venetian  eyes,  blue 
as  a  corn-flower,  and  full  of  warmth  and  flame. 
She  had  an  easy  charm  of  manner  that  I  could 
not  refrain  from  admiring,  nor  could  I  well 
help  taking  in  the  dainty  marks  of  her  toilette 
— the  knot  of  rich  lace  and  the  solitary  crescent 
that  held  the  lace  so  carelessly  yet  artistically 
together,  the  ruffle  of  her  wavy  auburn  hair, 
the  numerous  little  touches  of  taste.  "  I  have 
come,  doctor,"  she  began,  "  on  a  strange  errand, 
or  rather  I  find  myself  strangely  disposed.  For 
in  the  first  place  I  am  a  complete  stranger  to 
you,  and  yet  I  might  as  well  be  perfectly  frank 
at  the  outset  and  tell  you  that  I  am  what  you 
would  call  an  infidel.  I  do  not  believe  in  any- 
thing you  preach ;  I  do  not  believe  in  creeds 
or  churches ;  I  do  not  believe  in  the  Bible ;  I 
do  not  believe  in  prayer ;  I  do  not  believe  in 
the  after-life;  I  do  not  believe  in  Christ;  in 
fact,  I  think  no  such  man  ever  lived — and  yet  I 
have  come  to  you  for  help. 

"  I  have  a  friend  who  is  an  artist,"  she  went 
on,  "  and  who  is  living  in  the  same  apartment 
with  me.     She  was  educated  abroad  where  she 
[122] 


The    Minister    and    Beggars 

met  a  man  who  betrayed  her.  Fortunately 
her  child  did  not  live  and  her  people  know 
nothing  at  all  of  her  secret  misfortune.  It  was 
in  Paris  I  met  her  first.  I  was  attracted  to 
her  in  her  loneliness  and  saw  her  through  her 
trouble.  In  fact,  I  think  I  am  the  only  person 
on  this  side  the  water  who  knows  anything  of 
her  recent  history.  Well,  I  brought  her  back 
here  to  New  York  and  have  been  practically 
supporting  her  all  winter,  but  my  income  is 
small  and  I  cannot  help  her  much  further. 
She  has  been  trying  hard  to  make  good  here 
in  New  York,  but  although  her  work  has 
received  the  highest  praise,  still  she  is  not 
known  and  the  competition  is  too  keen,  and 
she  is  discouraged.  Now,  my  object  in  com- 
ing to  you  is  to  say  that  I  have  secured  a 
position  for  her  in  an  art  school  in  Denver,  my 
old  home,  but  it  will  cost  $50.00  to  send  her 
out  there  and  I  really  haven't  got  that  amount 
to  spare,  and  I  wondered  if  among  the  rich 
people  of  your  congregation  you  could  not  find 
some  kind-hearted  person  to  advance  the  price 
of  her  ticket.  As  I  intimated  already,  I  am 
really  ashamed  to  come  to  you,  but  this  is  the 
[  123  ]  " 


Letters    to    Edward 


church  nearest  to  us,  and  I  did  not  know  where 
else  to  turn." 

Whether  it  was  the  evident  culture  and 
seeming  honesty  of  my  visitor,  or  her  singular 
attractiveness,  or  the  frank  declaration  of  her 
religious  views  that  appealed  to  me,  I  do  not 
know,  but  a  subconscious  feeling  kept  bobbing 
up  that  here  was  an  opportunity  to  show  to  an 
avowed  enemy  that  religion  was  not  the  hard, 
fruitless,  heaven-gazing  foolishness  she  thought 
it  was,  and  maybe  to  win  her  over  from  the 
ranks,  and  on  the  spur  of  that  prompting  I 
took  out  my  check-book  and  drew  my  personal 
check  for  the  amount. 

But  in  the  evening  as  I  was  relating  the  inci- 
dent to  my  wife,  who  is  gifted  with  singular 
intuition  and  insight,  she  simply  made  the  com- 
ment, "Well,  I  don't  know  but  I  think  you 
were  a  little  quick  /  "  so  next  morning,  with 
my  faith  a  trifle  disturbed,  I  wended  my  way 
down  to  the  hotel.  Inquiring  at  the  door  if 
Dr.  Gregory  was  in  her  office  I  was  told  that 
she  had  not  been  in  since  yesterday.  Then  I 
asked  for  Miss  Blanchard  and  was  shown  to 
her  studio.  I  found  her  busy  doing  some 
[124] 


The    Minister    Deceived 

sketching.  I  explained  to  her  that  I  had  met 
Dr.  Gregory,  had  heard  her  speak  of  her  and 
her  work,  but  as  she  made  no  voluntary  ad- 
vances in  regard  to  the  interview  of  yesterday, 
I  concluded  it  was  because  of  sensitiveness  on 
the  subject.  My  fears,  however,  were  dis- 
abused. I  found  her  quite  a  sensible  and  at- 
tractive little  woman,  and  after  a  few  moments 
spent  in  admiring  some  of  her  landscapes,  which 
she  very  cordially  and  graciously  described,  con- 
sidering me  no  doubt  a  possible  purchaser,  I 
quietly  withdrew,  and  so  the  little  incident 
passed  quite  completely  out  of  memory. 

But  when  I  saw  her  this  afternoon,  and  lo- 
cated mentally  the  face,  and  the  time  and  place 
of  our  first  meeting,  then,  of  course,  everything 
revived,  and  I  said,  somewhat  abruptly,  no 
doubt :  "  Excuse  me,  but  are  you  not  Miss 
Blanchard  of  New  York  ?  " 

She  said,  "  I  am." 

"  Well,  I  am  the  clergyman  that  Dr.  Gregory 
came  to  see  about  you." 

"About  me?"  she  exclaimed  rather  aston- 
ished. 

"  Yes,"  I  continued ;  "  she  said  she  had 
[125] 


Letters    to    Edward 


secured  a  position  for  you  in  an  art  school  in 
Denver." 

"  Art  school  in  Denver,"  she  repeated ;  "  why, 
how  long  ago  ?  This  is  the  iirst  I  have  heard 
of  it." 

Then  when  I  rehearsed  the  story  I  had  been 
told  in  my  study,  she  was  quite  overcome  with 
indignation  and  surprise.  "Why,"  she  said, 
"  there  is  not  a  grain  of  truth  in  it.  I  have  al- 
ways been  able  to  buy  my  own  ticket  anywhere 
I  ever  wanted  to  go.  Moreover,  I  have  never 
been  in  Paris ;  in  fact,  have  never  been  abroad 
in  my  life.  The  tales  that  this  woman  has 
been  telling  about  me  are  something  awful.  I 
am  hearing  something  new  every  day."  Then 
she  went  on  to  explain  how  she  had  happened 
to  meet  this  said  Dr.  Gregory  less  than  a  year 
ago  in  a  current  events  class,  that  they  struck 
up  an  acquaintance,  being  both  young  profes- 
sional women  in  a  big  city,  and  that,  being 
anxious  to  economize,  they  decided  to  take  a 
small  apartment  together.  "  But,"  she  added, 
"  we  only  kept  it  for  three  months,  and  I  am 
out  a  good  deal  more  than  $50.00.  Yes,  you 
have  had  your  fingers  burned  in  a  beautiful 
[  126  ]  . 


The    Minister    Deceived 

flame,  but  so  have  I — and  a  good  deal  worse 
than  yours — to  my  sorrow." 

"  But  how  comes  it,"  I  turned  shunting  the 
disagreeable  episode,  "how  comes  it  that  you 
are  away  up  here  in  this  out-of-the-way  place  ?" 

"  Why,"  she  replied,  "  this  is  my  home  ;  this 
is  where  I  was  born ;  yonder  is  where  I  went 
to  school ;  over  these  wolds  I  have  played  as  a 
little  girl." 

And  with  that  the  light  dawned  and  I  then 
knew  for  certain  that  the  study  tale  was  of  scan- 
dalous manufacture.  For  was  I  not  acquainted 
with  her  people  and  many  of  her  connections, 
and  although  I  had  never  met  her  personally, 
still  I  had  heard  of  her  and  her  work  more  or 
less.  I  knew  her  parents  well.  They  were 
among  the  most  respected  members  in  the  com- 
munity. The  wonder  is  that  when  the  name 
was  first  spoken  I  did  not  instantly  recognize 
it,  and  connect  it  with  my  fellow  country- 
man artist,  but  this  can  be  easily  understood 
too  when  it  is  remembered  that  she  had  only 
recently  come  to  New  York,  and  anyway 
the  Paris  story  naturally  threw  me  off  my 
guard. 

[127] 


Letters    to    Edward 


Dear,  dear,  what  tales  we  ministers  have 
to  listen  to.  Is  it  any  wonder  that  after  a 
while  we  are  apt  to  grow  suspicious  ?  I  have 
not  lost  my  faith  in  human  nature  but  I  do 
hate  to  be  taken  in. 

But  now  I  have  given  so  much  space  to  the 
recital  of  this  singular  encounter  that  I  fear  I 
have  no  time  left  for  anything  further  about 
the  tea  party.,  I  can  hear  the  horses'  hoofs 
thudding  on  the  hard  gravel  road  going  home. 
The  sparrows  are  retiring  for  the  night  in 
the  gables  of  the  old  barn,  and  seem  to  be 
discussing  the  affairs  of  the  day  in  a  dreadful 
disorderly  jargon.  I  can  hear,  too,  as  I  write 
the  shouting  of  the  boys,  and  the  rowdyism  in 
the  distance.  The  show  is  over  and  this  is  the 
usual  sequel  to  all  these  events — carousing  and 
skylarking  and  drunkenness.  Half  the  women 
in  the  parish  will  be  down  to-morrow  with  nerv- 
ous prostration.  Dear  me,  if  I  had  my  way,  I 
would  banish  every  fair,  every  festival,  every 
necktie  sociable,  every  grab-bag,  every  ring- 
cake  and  raffle,  every  candy  pull,  every  chicken 
pie  dinner,  every  pink-apron-Martha-Washing- 
ton supper,  every  lantern  performance,  every 
[128] 


The    Church's  Tainted    Money 

operatic  Christmas  fandango  to  the  bottom  of 
Bottomless  Bay.  The  whole  business  of  sup- 
porting religion  by  the  sale  of  gimcracks  and  all 
such  devices  is  a  disgrace  to  the  Gospel  which  it 
professes  to  proclaim.  Not  one  truthful  word 
can  be  uttered  in  its  defense.  They  are  wrong, 
all  wrong,  always  wrong,  altogether  wrong.  I 
know  some  people  who  see  no  harm  in  them,  but 
then  that  only  shows  the  large  number  of  Chris- 
tians who  are  yet  in  the  "  stone  age  of  spiritual 
discernment."  How  can  we  ever  hope  to  make 
religion  respectable  so  long  as  churches  make 
their  living  by  peddling  ice-cream  and  crazy 
quilts  ?  Imagine  Paul  selling  oysters  to  pay 
the  expenses  of  Barnabas  and  himself  on  their 
missionary  journeys.  Some  indeed  champion 
taverns  to  their  congregational  equipment.  I 
know  one  church  myself  that  secured  indi- 
vidual communion  cups  by  means  of  a  euchre 
party.  What  do  you  think  of  that  ?  But  I 
must  bring  this  long  rambling  letter  to  a  close. 
Give  my  love  to  the  little  rosebud  across  the 
arroyo.  And  believe  me  ever  faithfully  yours, 

MlLCOLUMBUS. 
[129] 


Letters    to    Edward 


Monday,  August  21,  1912. 
MY  DEAE  EDWARD  : 

I  just  received  your  letter  and  oh,  how 
glad  it  made  me  feel.  To  think  that  the 
little  sweet  heart-rumor  is  true — how  perfectly 
lovely !  And  that  you  are  engaged !  My 
dear  boy,  I  could  just  take  you  by  the  neck 
and  give  you  a  good  squeeze,  and  of  course  it 
goes  without  saying  that  I  would  like  to  do  the 
same  with  her.  For  she  is  the  sweetest,  most 
attractive,  and  most  unselfish  little  soul  I  have 
ever  met — excepting  one  other.  There,  now, 
isn't  that  nice  ? 

This  morning  after  your  sunbeam  letter  came 
I  was  so  happy  that  I  went  for  a  walk  down 
through  what  we  call  the  Glen.  It  is  a  beauti- 
ful walk  of  about  a  mile  and  a  half,  winding  in 
and  out  and  round  about  along  the  level  of 
a  swiftly-running  stream.  The  bank  on  the 
opposite  side  is  quite  steep  and  the  trees  are 
huge — great  oaks  and  chestnuts  and  hemlocks 
— and  the  trail,  interlaced  with  a  perfect  net- 
work of  roots,  is  bordered  on  either  side  with 
[130] 


A    Walk   in    the    Woods 

laurel  and  rhododendron.  It  is  so  arched  and 
thickly  shaded  that  the  place  is  moist  and  cool 
even  on  the  hottest  days  in  summer.  Every 
now  and  then  I  would  come  to  an  open  glade 
with  an  old  deserted  wagon  road  crossing  it, 
and  stop  to  pick  the  goldenrod  and  ferns  and 
blueberries.  Then  I  would  plunge  into  the 
damp  thicket  again  and  stroll  leisurely  along. 
The  path  has  a  give  to  it  and  so  is  soft  and  re- 
freshing to  the  foot.  The  leaves  of  the  white 
oak  are  just  beginning  to  turn,  the  birds  were 
twittering  and  the  sun  was  filtering  through 
the  branches,  and  I  came  to  an  old  rustic  seat 
and  sat  me  down,  and  noted  the  different  shades 
of  green  in  pine  and  balsam  and  hickory  and 
the  wild  shrubbery  at  my  side.  Then  I  listened 
for  quite  a  while  to  the  murmur  of  the  water 
as  it  slid  and  fell  and  twisted  and  gurgled  over 
its  rocky,  and  in  some  places  shingly,  bed — it 
was  all  so  poetical.  I  had  you  both  in  mind, 
and  oh,  how  I  wished  that  you  could  have  been 
here  to  enjoy  it  with  me.  Then  I  came  to  the 
Falls  and  walked  down  the  steps,  counting 
them  as  I  descended  (one  hundred  and  ninety, 
I  think)  to  the  foot  of  the  drop,  and  watched 
[131] 


Letters    to    Edward 


for  a  long  while  the  beautiful  curve  of  the 
plunge  as  it  slipped  over  the  edge,  and  the 
play  of  the  colors,  and  down  below  the  different 
eddies  with  the  trout  swimming  about.  And 
it  was  all  a  love  parable.  The  birds  were  tell- 
ing love  stories  to  each  other ;  the  music  of  the 
brook  was  love  music ;  the  smell  of  the  ferns 
brought  me  back  to  my  own  wedding  day ;  the 
thrush  was  singing  a  love  song  down  yonder 
on  a  branch  of  an  old  tamarack  that  was  lean- 
ing over,  and  almost  dipping  into  the  water, 
and  I  could  not  help  repeating  Tennyson's  little 
lyric,  not  because  there  was  any  particular  ap- 
propriateness, but  because  I  guess  the  joy  was 
in  my  heart  and  I  was  thinking  of  you. 

u  Summer  is  coming,  summer  is  coming  ; 

I  know  it,  I  know  it,  I  know  it ; 
Light  again,  life  again,  leaf  again,  love  again  ; 
Yes,  my  wild  little  poet." 

You  say  you  want  me  to  come  out  and  tie 
the  knot.  Why,  my  dear  boy,  I  will  cross  the 
Continent  a  dozen  times  to  be  so  honored.  But 
was  I  ever  telling  you  of  one  awful  experience 
I  had  once  in  knot-tying  ?  Well,  you  know  I 
am  somewhat  of  a  slave  to  my  manuscript,  and 
even  the  marriage  ceremony  I  could  never 
[132] 


A    Marriage    Ceremony    Extempore 

memorize.  When  I  started  preaching  I  used 
to  write  my  sermon  on  Monday  and  Tuesday, 
and  then  spend  the  rest  of  the  week  committing 
it ;  it  was  awful ;  four  days  wasted !  Even 
now  I  am  always  thankful  when  I  get  safely 
through  the  Lord's  Prayer  on  Sunday  morning, 
I  am  so  afraid  of  getting  some  of  the  sentences 
in  the  wrong  place.  The  only  other  memoriter 
work  I  try  to  manage  now  is  the  committal 
service  at  the  grave,  as  with  my  eye  on  the 
lowering  casket  I  repeat,  "  Forasmuch  as  it 
hath  pleased  Almighty  God,  etc.,"  but  I  assure 
you  I  am  always  grateful  when  the  end  is  in 
sight.  I  wouldn't  dare  tackle  the  Apostles' 
Creed.  Well,  the  occasion  to  which  I  am  re- 
ferring happened  about  ten  years  ago.  I  was 
to  officiate  at  a  wedding.  So  when  the  evening 
came  I  took  down  my  manual,  put  it  in  the 
inside  pocket  of  my  Prince  Albert  and  was 
driven  to  the  bride's  home.  When  I  arrived 
at  my  destination  I  found  a  considerable  com- 
pany of  friends  gathered  to  celebrate  the  happy 
occasion.  The  house  was  tastily  decorated. 
Everybody  seemed  bright  and  cheerful.  I  took 
my  stand  under  an  archway  that  had  been 
[133] 


Letters    to    Edward 


prettily  planned  in  the  oriel  window.  Soon 
there  began  the  opening  strains  of  Lohengrin 
to  which  the  bridal  party  stepped  slowly  in. 
My  hands  were  clasped  behind  my  back  with 
the  manual  between  them.  When  the  music 
ceased  and  all  was  quiet,  I  opened  it  to  begin 
my  part  when  lo,  horror  of  horrors,  the  title  my 
eye  caught  was  "  Todhunter's  Conic  Sections." 
Well,  I  grew  cold  and  hot  and  then  cold  again. 
I  was  simply  stiff  with  fright.  I  never  could 
recall  just  what  I  did  say,  but  it  must  have 
been  a  frightful  fizzle.  Even  now  it  causes  a 
funny  feeling  to  creep  over  me  when  I  think 
about  it.  However,  do  not  be  anxious.  That 
was  ten  years  ago  and  you  need  not  fear.  I 
have  had  quite  an  experience  since,  and  I  could 
make  a  right  passable  job  of  the  knot  now  even 
without  my  little  text-book.  But  it  is  now 
creeping  well  on  towards  midnight  and  I  must 
stop.  Write  me  all  the  gossip  you  may  happen 
to  overhear  about  the  corridors.  How  I  would 
love  to  be  behind  a  screen  at  the  Ladies'  Aid 
some  Wednesday  afternoon !  And  believe  me, 
ever  faithfully  yours, 

MILCOLUMBUS. 
[134] 


A  Service  in  the  Old  Home  Church 


Sunday,  August  27,  1912. 
MY  DEAR  EDWAKD  : 

Another  Sunday  evening  and  I  must 
tell  you  about  my  experiences  to-day.  For  I 
have  had  several  more  exciting  ones.  In  the 
first  place  I  preached ;  the  pastor  went  away 
early  in  the  week  on  a  little  vacation,  and  I 
agreed  to  take  a  Sunday  or  two  provided  they 
could  secure  nobody  else.  Well,  it  is  always 
a  great  event  when  I  hold  forth  in  the  old 
church — I  mean  a  great  event  for  me.  For 
here  I  was  baptized,  here  I  first  sat  down  at 
the  communion  table,  here  I  was  ordained, 
here  I  received  most  of  my  early  religious  in- 
struction outside  of  what  was  imparted  to  me 
at  home,  here  I  preached  my  first  sermon — and 
my  last.  And  the  people  drive  from  far  and 
near  to  hear  the  boy,  and  judge  whether  he 
has  improved  any  since  they  heard  him  the 
last  time.  The  Sunday-school  is  held  at  ten 
just  before  the  morning  service,  and  as  the 
teacher  of  the  Bible  Class  did  not  show  up, 
they  laid  another  burden  on  my  shoulders.  I 
[135] 


Letters    to    Edward 


confess  frankly  I  did  not  like  it  any  too  well, 
because  I  am  just  a  little  afraid  of  these  old 
farmers.  They  are  regular  theologians,  every 
last  one  of  them,  reared  on  the  Shorter 
Catechism  and  King  James'  Version.  A  man 
must  be  pretty  sure  of  himself  before  he 
ventures  to  stand  up  before  them  and  discuss 
the  Fall  of  Jerusalem,  or  the  Temple,  or  the 
laws  of  Leviticus.  Candidly,  I  would  not 
think  of  holding  an  argument  with  one  of 
them.  And  here  was  a  class  of  twenty-five. 
And  I  did  not  even  know  what  the  lesson  was 
about.  But  I  felt  relieved  on  learning  that  it 
was  in  the  New  Testament,  and  still  more  at 
ease  when  I  glanced  at  the  head-lines  and 
noticed  it  was  in  the  life  of  Christ.  The 
passage  for  our  study  turned  out  to  be  the 
ninth  of  John,  and  of  course  I  apologized  at 
the  outset  for  not  having  gone  over  the  lesson 
beforehand,  remarking  by  the  way  that  I  had 
only  consented  to  take  the  regular  teacher's 
place  on  condition  that  it  was  to  be  a  mutual 
talk  together.  But  hardly  had  we  fairly 
started  when  one  of  the  long-headed  elders 

leveled  a  broadside  at  me.     "  What  connection, 
[136] 


Teaching    the    Bible    Class 

doctor,"  he  asked,  "is  there  between  that 
fourth  verse  and  the  verses  preceding  and 
following  ? "  And  then  the  questions  flew 
thick  and  fast — the  Sabbath  day  !  the  connec- 
tion between  suffering  and  sin  !  the  subject  of 
miracles!  the  foreordination  of  sorrow!  how 
sin  came  into  the  world  !  would  death  be  if  sin 
were  not !  What  didn't  we  discuss  ?  What 
philosophers  these  yeomen  are  !  One  dear  old 
soul  came  up  after  the  lesson  and  thanked  me, 
remarking  that  we  had  had  a  "  right  lively 
time  of  it."  I  confess  I  was  glad  to  get 
safe  and  sound  into  the  pulpit  where  there 
could  be  no  talking  back,  although  do  you 
know  since  then  I  have  been  wondering  if 
it  would  not  be  a  good  thing  in  our  church 
services  sometimes,  if  there  were  given  an  op- 
portunity for  some  back  firing.  One  thing,  it 
would  waken  us  up  a  bit.  The  preacher  has 
altogether  too  much  his  own  way,  I  fear. 
There  is  a  whole  lot  of  Popery  in  our  religious 
traditions,  tending  as  it  does  to  the  mediaeval 
heresy  that  authority  is  truth.  Then  for  a  few 
minutes  I  watched  the  worshippers  enter. 
What  a  reverent  company  they  are !  This  old 
[137] 


Letters    to    Edward 


church  is  a  real  factor  in  their  lives.  It  means 
something  to  them.  All  bow  in  prayer  as  they 
are  seated;  all  have  their  Bibles.  When  the 
text  is  given  out  you  can  hear  the  rustle  of  the 
leaves.  I  love  to  watch  the  faces.  The  young 
people  are  all  strange  to  me,  but  here  and  there 
I  can  distinguish  one  from  a  paternal  or  ma- 
ternal likeness.  And  so  many  of  the  old  forms 
are  missing!  I  remember  when  a  lad  there 
was  a  good  Highlander  in  the  neighborhood 
who  was  a  great  admirer  of  John  Knox ;  the 
mother  was  as  warmly  devoted  to  Luther. 
Their  first  child  happened  to  be  born  on  the 
10th  of  July  which,  I  believe,  is  Calvin's  birth- 
day, the  result  being  that  they  had  quite  a 
tussle  over  the  name.  For  months  they  could 
not  agree  on  anything,  till  at  last  a  compromise 
was  made  on  Calvin  Knox  Luther  McMillan. 
The  little  fellow  grew  up  and  we  boys  nick- 
named him  the  Reformation.  And  there  he 
was  sitting  down  on  the  left  row  with  his  wife 
and  a  big  strapping  boy  between  them.  Every- 
body here  is  nicknamed.  The  place  is  full  of 
McLeans  and  McDonalds  and  McDougalls  and 
McRaes.  There  is  John  McRae  and  Donald 
[138] 


Meeting    Old    Friends 

McRae  and  Jim  McRae  and  Angus  McRao  and 
Peter  McRae  and  Sandy  McRae;  there  is 
Simon  McLean  and  Ronald  McLean  and  Neil 
McLean  and  Murdoch  McLean;  there's  big 
Charlie  and  little  Charlie  and  black  Charlie ;  it 
seems  as  if  every  man  one  meets  is  a  McRae  or 
McLean  or  McDonald.  Such  Johns  and  James 
and  Hectors  and  Billies  and  Donald  Johns  and 
John  Donalds  I  never  saw  the  like,  and  nearly 
everybody  has  his  nickname ;  if  you  speak  of 
Sandy  McTavish  nobody  will  know  for  a  mo- 
ment whom  you  mean,  but  if  you  say  big 
Sandy  or  black  Sandy  or  red  Sandy  or  curly 
Sandy,  nothing  more  is  needed  ;  the  identifica- 
tion is  complete. 

But  the  surprise  of  the  morning  was  the 
entering  of  two  strangers  just  as  I  began  to 
read  the  Scripture  lesson.  They  were  ushered 
up  to  the  front  seat  right  under  my  eye.  Who 
do  you  suppose  they  were  ?  Do  you  remember 
the  two  young  people  I  met  on  the  train  on  my 
trip  to  Chicago  ?  I  mean  the  ones  that 
attracted  me  by  their  conversation.  They  had 
just  been  attending  the  Endeavor  meeting  at 
Atlantic  City.  "Well,  here  they  were.  I  rec- 
[139] 


Letters    to    Edward 


ognized  them  at  once.  They  are  spending  their 
vacation  over  at  the  hotel  on  the  south  shore. 
We  have  quite  a  considerable  colony  of  Ameri- 
cans there  in  summer.  The  hotel  is  about  five 
miles  away,  and  quite  a  number,  I  understand, 
always  ride  over  to  church.  Well,  after  the 
service  was  over  I  stepped  down  and  spoke  to 
them.  Of  course  they  did  not  know  me  from 
a  Canadian  thistle.  I  never  let  on.  But  they 
were  most  cordial,  said  if  I  happened  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  hotel  that  they  would  be 
pleased  to  have  me  call,  and  you  can  depend  on 
it  I  am  going  to  too,  for  I  want  to  meet  them. 
Well,  dear  me,  isn't  the  world  small  after  all  ? 
Think  of  listening  to  these  two  young  people 
on  the  train  discussing  theology  and  writing 
you  about  it,  and  now  running  across  them 
again  away  up  here  in  the  wilds  of  Canada ! 
Her  name  is  Miss  Johnson,  his  name  is  Graham. 
But  I  will  tell  you  all  about  them  in  my  next. 
So  till  then  and  with  lots  of  happy  wishes, 
Believe  me, 

Faithfully  yours, 

MILCOLUMBUS. 

[140] 


Summer    Tourists 


Thursday,  September  7,  191%. 
MY  DEAR  EDWARD  : 

Well,  I  have  had  quite  an  interesting 
visit  over  at  the  Hill  Crest,  met  my  friends 
again  and  spent  a  delightful  day  there.  There 
are  six  in  the  party — Miss  Johnson  and  her 
mother,  Mr.  Graham,  and  a  Miss  MacDonald 
with  her  father  and  mother.  The  father  is  a 
practicing  physician  in  Detroit.  As  I  entered, 
Miss  Johnson  was  in  the  music  room  at  the 
piano.  She  was  rendering  Mendelssohn's 
"  Gondellied."  I  sent  up  my  card,  as  I  did  not 
wish  to  commit  any  solecism  of  etiquette,  and 
while  waiting  I  enjoyed  the  music.  I  felt  my- 
self being  rowed  over  the  dark  waters  of  the 
canal  under  the  moonlight,  past  arches  and 
palaces  and  towers  with  their  rich  gildings  and 
mouldings  and  traceried  windows.  I  could 
hear  the  cry  of  the  gondolier  and  then  the  deep 
tones  of  the  bell  ringing  out  clear  and  strong 
over  the  waters.  She  is  a  beautiful  player. 
When  she  had  finished  she  stood  up  between 
the  stool  and  instrument,  and  gathering  the 
[141] 


Letters    to    Edward 


sheets  together  and  without  looking  round, 
"Ruth,"  she  called.  Ruth,  it  seemed,  was  in 
an  alcove  not  far  away,  reading.  Then  arm  in 
arm  they  walked  out  on  the  porch.  Meanwhile 
Mrs.  Johnson  came  down  in  answer  to  my  card 
and  we  all  sat  down  on  the  verandah  together. 
"  We  enjoyed  your  sermon  so  much  yesterday, 
doctor,"  Miss  Johnson  began.  "  Oh,  thank 
you,"  I  said.  "  I  was  quite  startled  to  see  you 
walk  in.  You  did  not  know  that  we  had  met 
before,  did  you  ?  " 

"  "Why,  no,"  she  added  somewhat  surprised. 
"  "Where  ? "  And  then  I  related  the  incident. 
Well,  you  should  have  seen  the  funny  look  she 
gave  me.  Nothing  would  do  but  she  must  hunt 
up  Graham  who  was  about  the  hotel  somewhere, 
and  that  I  should  wait  and  lunch  with  them. 
Well,  I  can  assure  you  I  was  glad  I  waited. 
At  lunch  we  had  a  table  all  to  ourselves  over 
in  a  corner,  and  we  talked  as  though  we  had 
been  friends  of  long  standing.  They  are  cer- 
tainly most  charming  people.  And  the  girls 
are  two  of  the  brightest  conversationalists  I 
have  ever  run  across.  I  have  already  given 
you  a  sample  of  one,  and  the  other  is  fully  as 
[142] 


The    Candidating    Peril 

good  and  very  much  like  her.  I  tell  you,  my 
boy,  if  things  do  not  go  along  well  across  the 
arroyo,  there  is  some  fine  fishing  in  this  stream. 
All  are  college  graduates  and  good  church 
people  too.  Graham  is  in  the  Episcopal  Sem- 
inary at  Philadelphia,  and  is  a  cousin  of  Miss 
Johnson,  I  understand.  In  fact,  I  think  they 
are  all  cousins  more  or  less  remote,  but  I  have 
not  got  that  far  along  into  the  intricacies  of 
family  ties  as  yet.  Dr.  MacDonald  is  evidently 
one  of  the  principal  men  in  his  home  church  in 
Detroit,  the  Tabernacle  Presbyterian. 

"  You  don't  know  any  smart  young  fellow 
we  could  get  for  our  pulpit,  I  suppose,  doctor," 
he  said  to  me  at  the  table. 

"  You  should  tell  the  doctor,"  Miss  Mac- 
Donald  added,  "  that  we  have  been  three  years 
without  a  pastor,  and  that  in  that  time  we  have 
heard  something  like  forty  candidates,  papa." 

"  "Well  now,  Ruth,  I  do  not  think  it  is  alto- 
gether fair  to  give  the  doctor  such  a  dreadful 
impression  of  us  as  all  that,"  the  mother  inter- 
posed. 

"  "Well,  mama,  it's  true  anyway.  Forty-two, 
I  think,  is  the  exact  number,  doctor,  and  they 
[143] 


Letters    to    Edward 


have  been  all  sorts  and  conditions.  We  have 
had  old  men  and  young  men,  big  men  and 
little  men,  men  who  wore  glasses  and  one  or 
two  who  wore  gowns,  some  who  parted  their 
hair  in  the  middle  and  some  who  did  not  have 
any  to  part.  Certainly  if  variety  is  charming 
we  have  been  charmed.  Then  we  have  had  all 
styles  of  preaching — memoriter,  extempore, 
topical,  textual;  some  read  their  sermons  so 
closely  that  they  scarcely  lifted  their  eye  off 
the  paper,  a  few  in  fact  following  the  lines 
with  their  fingers.  Now  I  never  did  like  a 
read  sermon.  I  do  not  know  whether  the 
doctor  reads  his  or  not.  (I  did  not  have  the 
pleasure  of  being  present  yesterday,  doctor.)  I 
never  listen  to  a  read  sermon  that  I  do  not  feel 
in  my  bones  the  truth  of  a  remark  I  once  heard, 
that  if  that  man  instead  of  trying  to  put  fire  on 
paper — if  he  would  just  take  that  paper  and  use 
it  to  kindle  a  fire  in  his  own  heart,  he  would 
be  more  likely  to  succeed,  as  the  old  hymn  puts 
it,  in  '  kindling  one  in  these  cold  hearts  of  ours.' 
Indeed  I  often  think  of  the  story  told  of 
Thomas  Blacklock,  the  famous  blind  preacher. 
It  was  when  he  was  presented  to  the  parish  of 
[144] 


Our   Theological    Schools 

Kirkcudbright  by  the  Earl  of  Selkirk.  An  old 
lady  sitting  on  the  pulpit  stairs  inquired  of  the 
one  sitting  next  her  if  she  thought  he  was  a 
reader.  '  He  canna  be  a  reader  for  he  is 
blind,'  was  the  reply.  'I'm  glad  on't,'  said 
the  old  lady  smiling.  *  I  wish  they  were  a' 
blind.' " 

"  She  certainly  is  hitting  you  pretty  hard, 
doctor,"  Miss  Johnson  interrupted,  "for  if  I 
am  not  mistaken  you  use  the  manuscript." 

"Oh,  mother,"  she  returned  with  splendid 
recovery,  "  New  York  doctors  are  not  that 
easily  shocked.  Maybe  I  am  a  little  hard  but 
then,  doctor,  I  always  speak  my  mind  you 
see.  We  have  been  three  years  in  our 
church,  I  say,  looking  for  a  pastor,  sampling 
applicants  most  of  the  time,  and  such  a  lot  of 
old  fogies  as  most  of  them  are.  I  get  so  out  of 
patience  sometimes  with  our  divinity  schools — 
the  material  they  are  sending  out  to  us  as  spiri- 
tual leaders." 

"  Now  it's  your  turn,  Walter,"  Miss  Johnson 
broke  in  again,  glancing  across  the  table  at 
Graham. 

"  What  is  a  theological  seminary  for,  I  would 
[145] 


Letters    to    Edward 


like  to  know,"  she  went  on,  taking  no  notice 
of  the  interruption,  "  what  is  a  theological 
seminary  for  if  not  to  turn  out  preachers  ?  I 
don't  believe  a  theological  seminary  is  for 
manufacturing  scholars.  We  have  scholars 
enough.  The  Church  is  sinking  with  the 
weight  of  her  scholarship.  Scholarship  alone 
will  never  bring  the  world  to  Christ.  What 
we  want  is  men  who  can  preach,  and  when 
a  man  can  preach  he  has  no  right,  it 
seems  to  me,  taking  a  college  chair.  The 
Church  should  not  permit  it.  Look  at  the 
field  to-day.  There's  Dr.  Van  Dyke  and  Dr. 
Hyde  and  Dr.  McPherson  and  Dr.  Thwing  and 
Dr.  Stryker  and  Dr.  Faunce  and  Dr.  McAfee 
and  a  great  long  list  of  doctors  this  and  that. 
What  right  have  these  men  to  be  filling  college 
chairs — running  around  the  country  begging 
for  money,  which,  by  the  way,  seems  to  be  the 
principal  work  of  a  college  president  nowadays 
— when  the  Church  is  crying  out  so  loudly  and 
urgently  for  men  to  preach  the  Gospel  of  Jesus 
Christ  ?  Some  ministers  can  sing  a  little,  paint 
a  little,  play  the  piano  a  little,  dabble  in  old 
china  a  little,  and  do  a  little  of  most  anything. 
[146] 


Preachers    Who    Can    Preach 

I  think  they  are  betraying  their  calling.  They 
were  not  sent  to  do  a  whole  legion  of  little 
things  but  one  all-absorbing  great  thing. 

"  Now,  for  instance,  take  the  man  we  had  a 
week  ago.  He  preached  on  the  Atonement 
and  as  far  as  any  heart-appeal  is  concerned,  he 
might  just  as  well  have  been  reciting  the  di- 
mensions of  Solomon's  Temple.  Now  preach- 
ing, as  I  understand  it,  is  talking  to  people's 
hearts,  and  the  Atonement  is  certainly  a  most 
tender  subject,  yet  the  man  never  once  gripped 
us  at  close  range.  I  would  not  call  it  preach- 
ing at  all ;  it  was  just  lecturing. 

"  Doctor,"  she  went  on,  turning  to  me,  "  I 
think  the  great  thing  preachers  ought  to  aim  at 
to-day  is  to  be  interesting;  first  of  all  to  be 
spiritual  and  then  to  be  interesting.  The  little 
codger  who  spent  the  day  fishing  and  did  not 
even  get  a  bite  gave  a  first  rate  explanation  of 
his  hard  luck  when  he  said,  '  We  didn't  seem  to 
catch  their  attention.'  And  churches  to-day 
have  not  won  the  world's  attention.  Why, 
in  most  city  churches  the  choir  is  gradually 
squeezing  out  the  preacher,  will  only  graciously 
allow  him  twenty  or  twenty-five  minutes  now, 

cm] 


Letters    to    Edward 


and  if  the  craze  continues,  by  and  by  the  ser- 
mon will  be  pushed  out  the  back  door  alto- 
gether. Then,  I  presume,  the  good  old  com- 
mand will  be  changed  so  as  to  read,  '  Go  and 
sing  the  Gospel  to  every  creature.'  Doctor, 
dullness  in  the  pulpit  is  an  unpardonable  sin, 
and  yet,  shall  I  confess  it,  nine  sermons  out  of 
every  ten  to  me  are  dull." 

"Maybe  it's  your  own  fault,"  interrupted 
Miss  Johnson. 

"  Well,  maybe  it  is,  but  I  happen  to  know  a 
professor  in  one  of  our  leading  seminaries  and 
his  chair  is  homiletics,  which  is,  being  inter- 
preted, I  believe,  how  to  preach.  Isn't  that 
correct,  doctor?  Well,  this  same  teacher  of 
the  art  and  science  of  preaching  started  with  a 
great  overflowing  congregation  himself  in  his 
last  pastorate,  and  swept  the  building  empty  in 
two  years,  and  now,  mark,  he  is  giving  lectures 
to  the  rising  theologues  on  how  to  reach  the 
masses.  By  the  way,  he  occupied  our  pulpit 
one  Sunday  last  winter,  taking  for  his  text  that 
beautiful  heart-reaching  invitation,  '  Come  unto 
me  all  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden  and  I 
will  give  you  rest.'  Now  if  there  is  a  text  in 
[148] 


Interesting  Without   Being  Sensational 

the  whole  Bible  that  a  man  ought  to  be  simple 
upon  (thought  I  to  my  lone  self  as  he  started 
out)  surely  this  is  the  text ;  but  as  he  proceeded 
it  seemed  as  if  he  was  transformed  into  the 
very  genius  of  darkness.  On  and  up  he  soared 
into  the  fog,  above  earth  and  cloud  and  hu- 
man creature.  After  forty  minutes  or  so  he 
came  down  because  he  was  tired,  I  presume — 
and  so  were  we.  But  then  I  would  rather 
preach  like  that  than  like  some  others — like 
the  pulpit  buffoon  for  instance.  I  was  in  Bos- 
ton two  weeks  ago.  I  was  reading  the  after- 
noon paper  wondering  where  I  would  go  to 
church  to-morrow  ;  it  was  Saturday.  Glancing 
at  the  religious  page  I  was  looking  who  were 
to  be  the  preachers.  One  of  the  notices  caught 
my  eye.  It  read  thus,  '  Morning  Subject,  God's 
Pocket  Handkerchief;  Evening  Subject,  The 
Funeral  of  Adam.'  Now  do  you  wonder  that 
people  do  not  attend  public  worship  as  once 
they  did?  And  yet  all  the  while  the  simple 
story  of  Jesus  is  the  most  interesting,  the  most 
thrilling  narrative  ever  dramatized  by  the  pen 
of  man.  I  declare,  doctor,  I  think  we  need  a 
revival  nowadays  to  restore  an  evangelical  ac- 
[149] 


Letters    to    Edward 


cent  to  present-day  preaching,  and  bring  back 
the  good  old  times." 

Well,  my  dear  boy,  I  have  given  you  a  little 
sample  of  the  atmosphere  I  have  been  in  to- 
day. The  only  regret  I  had  was  that  I  could 
not  take  down  everything  that  was  said  as  be- 
fore, for  my  memory  is  bad  and  broken  and  as 
I  write  I  cannot  fill  in  some  of  the  gaps.  But 
it  was  all  just  as  clever  and  spicy  as  could  be. 
Miss  MacDonald  interested  me  most  because 
she  is  the  prettier  and  more  outspoken,  but 
they  are  both  very  attractive  and  both  are  un- 
usual talkers.  Graham  is  quiet,  but  clever  too ; 
I  liked  him  exceedingly.  Even  the  observa- 
tions of  the  old  people  would  be  well  worth 
reporting  if  I  could  only  remember  and  give 
them  in  their  proper  settings.  Then,  too,  one 
cannot  convey  the  tone,  the  look,  the  laugh,  the 
glance,  the  gesture.  I  believe  I  would  even 
make  a  conversationalist  myself  if  I  lived  in  a 
circle  like  that  every  day.  It  is  a  great  and 
wonderful  and  much  neglected  art.  As  it  is, 
I  am  a  poor  talker.  My  preference  is  to  sit 
quietly  in  a  corner  and  listen.  In  society  my 
wife  calls  me  a  stick.  But  the  fact  is,  as  I  go 
[150] 


The  Neglected  Art  of  Conversation 

out  into  society  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  en- 
thuse over  the  small  talk  I  hear  ;  it  bores  me ; 
there  is  so  little  to  it.  This  talking  just  for  the 
sake  of  saying  something  and  filling  in  the 
interstices  of  silence  seems  such  an  empty  task. 
But  my  letter  has  grown  to  an  inordinate 
length  and  I  must  stop.  We  played  a  four- 
some in  the  afternoon  and  I  did  not  get  back 
home  until  almost  seven  o'clock.  But  I  have 
had  a  red-letter  day  and  enjoyed  every  min- 
ute of  it.  Both  girls  are  graduates  of  Vassar. 
Both  too  have  taken  a  special  course  in  phi- 
losophy at  Chicago  University,  and  Miss  John- 
son spent  another  year  in  the  Biblical  Institute. 
I  declare  few  ministers  are  better  posted  in 
theology.  They  invited  me  next  week  to  an- 
other golf  tournament  and  I  am  counting  on  it 
greatly.  Only  I  am  not  sleeping  a  bit  well  and 
it  gives  me  such  a  draggy  feeling.  But  maybe 
it  will  wear  off ;  only  it  disturbs  me  not  to  be 
gaining  ground  when  I  am  doing  nothing,  and 
ought  to  be  laying  up  an  extra  store  of  energy 
against  the  winter.  Good-bye  for  the  present 
and  believe  me  faithfully  yours, 

MlLCOLUMBUS.    : 
[151] 


Letters    to    Edward 


September  12,  1912. 
MY  DEAR  EDWAED  : 

I  have  been  dreadfully  distressed  ever 
since  hearing  that  you  have  had  a  slight  return 
of  the  old  trouble.  I  am  so  afraid  you  have 
been  working  too  hard,  but  the  parish  is  so 
large  that  I  suppose  you  felt  you  had  to  put  in 
some  extra  hours.  I  know  you  are  something 
like  myself,  in  that  work  that  ought  to  be  done 
worries  you  until  you  see  that  it  is  done,  and 
maybe  this  very  worry  is  as  harmful  as  the  over- 
work, and  then  too  there  is  such  a  sweet  and 
complacent  feeling  in  knowing  that  the  day's 
tasks  are  all  finished,  the  chores  all  attended 
to,  and  everything  tucked  away  nicely  for  the 
night.  One  sleeps  better.  And  what  would  I 
not  give  sometimes  for  that !  I  am  such  a 
wretched  sleeper !  The  least  obstruction  seems 
to  throw  me  off  the  rails.  I  am  so  sensitive  to 
changes — a  strange  room,  a  different  mattress, 
a  new  suit  of  pajamas,  a  pillow  too  low  or  too 
high,  the  least  little  swerving  from  the  old  ruts 
and  it's  all  up  with  me  for  the  night.  Then  if 
[152] 


Insomnia 

I  lose  one  night  I  am  almost  certain  to  lose  two, 
and  when  the  third  comes  I've  got  so  far  be- 
yond sleep  that  it  seems  as  if  every  nerve  in 
my  body  were  wide  awake,  and  only  a  little 
veronal  or  some  coal  tar  product  will  suffice  to 
call  me  back  to  relaxation  and  calmness  and 
the  old  ways.  I  stupefy,  as  it  were,  the  re- 
bellious spirit  and  knock  it  into  the  groove 
again.  The  great  foe  of  sleeplessness  is  fear. 
"What  an  obstinate  thing  it  is !  I  consider  fear 
to  be  the  great  enemy  of  the  human  mind, 
greater  than  superstition,  greater  than  igno- 
rance. What  a  long  black  wake  of  woe  it  has 
left  behind  it.  Often  when  I  start  to  retire  I 
am  so  dull  and  heavy  I  can  hardly  keep  my 
eyes  open  till  I  am  disrobed,  then  the  moment 
I  strike  the  pillow  along  comes  this  bogie  to 
obsess  me  with  the  thought  that  maybe  I  am 
in  for  another  wakeful  night,  and  lo,  in  a  mo- 
ment, in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  I  am  alert 
and  all  attention  again. 

But  then  my  trouble  is  a  small  matter  com- 
pared  to  some  others,  and  I  find  that  the 
ailment  is  surprisingly  common.     I  never  knew 
there  were   so  many  insomniacs  among  my 
[153] 


Letters    to    Edward 


friends  until  two  or  three  years  ago  when  I 
first  began  to  sip  a  little  of  the  bitter  potion 
myself.  On  every  side  I  was  given  prescrip- 
tions and  recommendations  by  some  healed 
exponent  of  his  certain  cure.  I  received  letters 
almost  daily,  saying  something  to  this  effect, 
"  Dear  brother,  I  can  sympathize  with  you  and 
I  do."  Each  day  brought  some  fresh  and 
friendly  surprise  from  martyrs  to  the  wakeful 
art.  Ah,  the  old  world  is  not  so  cold  and 
heartless  as  we  think.  People  do  not  advertise 
their  ills  and  aches  as  much  as  we  are  some- 
times apt  to  imagine.  Many,  of  course,  there 
are  who  love  to  talk  their  trials  and  feast  on 
each  affliction,  but  the  great  majority  carry 
their  cross  quietly  and  patiently  and  alone. 
These  heroes  and  heroines  of  uncomplaining 
silence  are  all  about  us,  and  many  of  them  are 
as  true  and  brave  soldiers  as  ever  fell  on  any 
battle-field.  I  called  to-day  on  one  of  the  old 
friends  of  my  boyhood  who  is  very  ill.  He 
was  too  ill  to  see  me.  Poor  fellow,  what  a 
hard,  rough  road  he  has  had  to  travel !  He  is 
a  young  lawyer.  Four  years  ago  when  he  was 
first  stricken  down  I  visited  him  and  prayed  with 
[154] 


A    Hero    and    a    Heroine 

him.  I  prayed  that  he  might  be  spared  to  his 
dear  wife  and  little  family  because  they  needed 
him  so.  "  Oh,"  he  said  when  I  had  finished  and 
with  tears  in  his  eyes,  "  you  do  not  understand ; 
I  do  not  want  to  live  ;  there  is  nothing  in  life 
for  me  any  more ;  I  want  to  go."  At  the  time 
of  that  attack  he  was  almost  a  year  from  his 
office,  most  of  it  spent  in  suffering.  But  he 
grew  some  better  and  for  two  years  he  was 
able  to  go  to  his  desk  for  two  or  three  hours  a 
day.  Yesterday  I  heard  he  was  down  and  out 
again  for  the  tenth  or  eleventh  time,  same 
trouble,  only  worse.  How  grieved  I  was  to 
hear  it !  How  I  hated  to  go  !  How  I  dreaded 
the  interview !  He  asks  so  many  questions. 
He  thinks  that  because  I  am  a  minister  I  know 
a  little  more  about  the  ways  of  Providence. 
He  wonders  why.  He  wants  the  mystery  ex- 
plained. And  one  feels  so  keenly  one's  igno- 
rance !  He  is  a  most  earnest  fellow.  He  has 
a  strong  religious  bent.  He  never  murmurs, 
never  really  doubts,  but  hope  has  been  de- 
ceived so  often.  One  day  all  seems  bright,  the 
next  brings  cloud  and  shadow.  It  has  been 
ups  and  downs  for  the  past  five  years,  like  a 
[155] 


Letters    to    Edward 


cat  playing  with  a  mouse.  I  called  to  see  him 
but,  as  I  said,  he  was  too  weak  to  receive  me, 
so  I  sat  and  talked  for  an  hour  with  his  true, 
brave,  patient  little  wife.  "  And  through  it 
all,"  she  remarked,  "  we  have  been  so  happy." 
I  offered  her  money.  I  said,  "  Your  expenses 
are  heavy ;  it  has  been  doctors  and  nurses  and 
medicines  for  five  years  now  ;  your  income  is 
not  large ;  you  must  need  many  things.  Please 
accept  this ;  I  want  to  do  something  for  you." 
But  she  thanked  me  so  sweetly  and  said,  "  No, 
doctor,  we  can  manage,  I  think."  Oh,  the 
mystery  of  suffering,  the  riddle,  the  puzzle ! 
How  it  baffles  us!  How  it  tears  our  heart- 
strings ! 

Yesterday  after  dinner  I  went  down  to  the 
shore  to  get  some  exercise  in  the  shape  of  a  run 
along  the  sand,  but  the  tide  was  high  and  the 
beach,  close  in,  is  very  rocky  and  stony,  so  I 
struck  out  across  the  heath  and  kept  on  wind- 
ing over  the  hill.  It  was  a  perfect  evening 
with  the  sun  sinking  in  a  bed  of  amber.  The 
hay  was  all  gathered,  and  I  crossed  the  country 
past  moor  and  fen  and  furrow  and  ripening 
wheat  fields,  jumping  fences  and  brooks  and 
[156] 


In    the    Old    Burial    Ground 

morasses  till  I  came  to  a  copse  of  bird's  eye 
maple.  I  plunged  into  it  without  a  path  to 
guide  me  and  not  knowing  whither  I  was  go- 
ing. When  I  got  out  into  the  clearing  I  was 
puzzled  for  a  moment  to  know  just  where  I 
was,  but  looking  about  I  saw  the  church  spire 
and  cemetery  only  a  few  rods  away  on  the 
crest  of  a  hill,  with  a  dingle  and  thick  under- 
brush between  us.  So  I  shot  across  by  the 
shortest  cut  and  soon  found  myself  in  the  old 
burial  ground,  "  where  heaves  the  turf  in  many 
a  mouldering  heap."  Here  lie  my  forefathers 
and,  indeed,  all  my  departed  kindred.  What  a 
holy,  peaceful  spot  it  is !  Beautiful  for  situa- 
tion but  shamefully  kept !  The  grass  is  grow- 
ing on  the  walks.  Kank  weeds  and  tall  timothy 
abound  on  every  side.  The  stones,  many  of 
them,  are  leaning  over  in  a  state  of  disintegra- 
tion and  collapse.  Strange,  isn't  it,  that  people 
can  become  so  thoughtless  as  to  neglect  their 
dead.  Glancing  around  I  noticed  a  woman 
kneeling  on  a  grave  down  near  the  gateway. 
Coming  closer  I  found  that  she  was  trimming 
the  family  plot,  and  planting  a  little  bed  of 
pansies  on  her  husband's  grave.  And  as  she 
[157] 


Letters    to    Edward 


worked  she  told  me  her  story.  I  noticed  there 
were  five  mounds.  "This  is  my  dear  man's 
grave,"  she  began ;  "  he  left  me  just  a  year 
ago,  and  that  is  my  precious  boy  Lloyd's ;  he 
died  in  Hot  Springs,  Arkansas,  and  I  never 
even  knew  that  he  was  sick  until  I  received 
the  telegram  of  his  death ;  and  the  next  to  it 
is  Harry's,  the  best  boy  that  ever  lived ;  only 
twenty- three  when  he  was  taken,"  and  so  she 
went  on  describing  each  little  lowly  bed  and 
which  of  her  children  slept  therein,  describing 
in  detail  their  virtues,  and  all  the  while  sobbing 
and  watering  the  pansies  with  her  tears.  She 
was  now  alone,  her  only  relative  being  a 
brother  who  lives  in  Montreal.  She  spent  this 
last  winter  with  him,  but  as  she  put  it  when  I 
bade  her  good-evening,  "  I'll  never  go  so  far 
from  my  dear  ones  again.  I  want  to  be  near 
this  place ;  this  is  the  sweetest  spot  on  earth  to 
me."  And  as  I  wended  my  way  back  and 
went  right  by  her  little  cottage  door  I  thought 
of  her  living  in  it  all  by  herself.  Five  years 
ago  and  there  was  a  happy  circle  of  six,  now 
she  alone  is  left  and  she  no  longer  calls  it 
home.  Home  is  where  the  heart  is  and  her 
[158] 


Ian    McLaren's    Confession 

heart  is  up  yonder  on  the  hill.  And  do  you 
know,  Edward,  the  thought  that  possessed  me 
all  the  way  was  what  a  great  and  glorious 
message  we  have  for  those  that  mourn.  Hope 
is  the  only  thing  left  to  the  poor  soul ;  it  is  her 
one  sustaining  prop.  She  confidently  expects 
to  see  the  circle  completed  again.  Who  would 
rob  her  of  that  strengthening  inheritance  ?  I 
think  we  do  not  preach  enough  the  gospel  of 
comfort.  Wasn't  it  Ian  McLaren  who  said  on 
giving  up  his  pastorate  in  Liverpool  that  if  he 
were  beginning  his  ministry  again  he  would 
preach  more  along  the  line  of  the  Master's 
first  discourse — "  binding  the  broken-hearted  "  ? 
But  here  again  I  am  becoming  long-winded 
and  must  put  on  the  brakes.  Hope  your  next 
letter  will  bring  good  news.  And  with  much 
love,  believe  me, 

Ever  faithfully  yours, 

MlLCOLUMBUS. 


[159] 


Letters    to    Edward 


October  5, 1912. 
MY  DEAK  EDWARD  : 

Well,  here  I  am  at  Muldoon's.  I  wonder 
if  you  ever  heard  of  the  place  or  the  man.  I 
do  not  suppose  you  are  enough  of  a  sport  to 
know  much  of  his  history.  Anyway,  you  have 
heard  of  John  L.  Sullivan,  have  you  not  ? 
Well,  Muldoon  was  Sullivan's  trainer  in  the 
latter's  palmy  days,  and  a  champion  fighter 
himself  in  his  prime.  I  had  been  sleeping  so 
wretchedly  that  one  morning  my  brother  said 
to  me,  "  Why  don't  you  go  to  Muldoon's  for  a 
few  weeks  ?  *'  The  suggestion  appealed  so 
strongly  that  next  day  I  went  down  and  pur- 
chased a  ticket  for  White  Plains,  and  the  third 
day  saw  me  on  the  way. 

The  farm,  as  he  calls  it,  is  about  twenty  miles 
outside  of  New  York  and  contains  some  forty 
or  fifty  acres,  I  should  say.  It  occupies  the 
shoulder  of  a  hill  that  runs  for  a  mile  or  two 
along  a  ridge  with  quite  a  considerable  slope  to 
north  and  south.  On  the  crest  of  the  hill  are 
the  buildings.  These  consist  of  one  long  rec- 
[160] 


A    Visit    to    Muldoon's 

tangular  structure  of  two  stories,  and  the  stables 
which  are  situated  in  a  slight  depression  of  the 
crest  about  two  hundred  yards  away.  One  end 
of  the  main  building  the  professor  uses  himself 
as  his  own  private  apartments  ;  the  other  wing 
is  a  library  and  lounging  room  for  the  guests, 
while  in  between  are  the  gymnasium  on  the 
first  floor  and  the  bedrooms  on  the  second.  He 
can  accommodate  about  thirty.  I  think  there 
are  twenty-four  here  at  present. 

Well,  it  certainly  is  a  new  experience  for  me. 
I  have  been  my  own  boss  for  so  many  years 
that  it  went  a  little  hard  at  first  to  be  ordered 
around  like  a  barefoot  boy  in  pantaloons,  but 
that  is  what  one  is.  When  a  man  enters  this 
institution  I  tell  you  he  leaves  his  independence 
behind  him.  He  is  not  supposed  to  have  a  will 
of  his  own  at  all ;  it  belongs  absolutely  to 
another.  If  I  want  to  run  over  to  White 
Plains  some  afternoon  for  an  hour  (two  miles 
away)  I  have  to  go  to  headquarters  and  say, 
"  Please,  professor,  can  I  go  over  to  White 
Plains  this  afternoon  ?  "  Now,  that  looks  real 
ridiculous,  doesn't  it  ?  And  what  a  tyrant  he 
is !  I  can  assure  you  there  is  no  love  wasted 
[161] 


Letters    to    Edward 


around  this  establishment.  The  whole  place  is 
ruled  by  fear,  and  the  chief  instruments  towards 
that  end  are  a  loud  cross  voice,  a  body  as  strong 
and  perfect  as  Angelo's  David,  muscles  like 
bars  of  steel  and  a  tirade  of  profanity.  At  six 
in  the  morning  the  assistant  walks  along  the 
corridor  and  raps  at  each  door  to  awaken  the 
sleepers  and  order  them  to  training  quarters. 
So  down  to  the  dressing-room  we  all  hurry  in 
our  bath  robes.  There  we  are  told  to  don  our 
gymnasium  suits.  There  are  no  chairs  in  the 
room,  and  no  one  is  permitted  to  sit  or  squat  or 
even  kneel  when  putting  on  his  shoes  and  stock- 
ings. The  place  is  dimly  lighted  and  the  lac- 
ing of  our  gymnasium  slippers  with  their  little 
eyelets  is  a  task  that  makes  the  corpulent  fellow 
strain  and  pant  like  a  horse  with  the  heaves. 
It  is  much  like  threading  a  needle  by  dim 
candle-light.  We  are  allowed  so  many  minutes 
for  this  preliminary  work  and  woe  betide  the 
fumbler  who  is  not  ready  when  the  time  is 
called,  for  everything  here  goes  by  the  clock. 
Then  sheep-like  we  are  driven  out  into  the  arena. 
There  we  are  lined  up  in  pairs  on  either  side  of 
the  large  room.  The  professor  himself  always 
[162] 


In    the    Gymnasium 


takes  the  new  man,  and  as  I  chanced  to  be  the 
culprit  three  weeks  ago  to-inorrow  morning,  I 
was  taken  on  for  an  hour's  set-to  with  the 
medicine  ball.  He  called  out,  "Are  you 
ready  ?  "  I  meekly  returned  in  faltering  voice, 
"  I'm  ready,  professor."  Now  I  had  never 
seen  a  medicine  ball  before,  nor  have  I  ever 
seen  a  stone  hurled  from  a  catapult  nor  a  shell 
leaping  in  murderous  glee  from  a  thirteen  inch 
gun,  but  I  can  see  that  ball  still  as  it  approached 
me  on  its  first  passage  across  the  void.  It 
struck  me  somewhere  in  the  abdominal  zone  and 
bounded  to  the  other  end  of  the  room.  Instantly 

I  heard  in  stentorian  voice,  "  You clown, 

what  are  those  hands  of  yours  for  ?  " 

And  again  in  raucous  tones  above  the  turmoil 
of  the  other  players,  "Throw  it  from  where 
you  are ;  not  that  way ;  overhead,  man,  over- 
head ;  now  get  back  to  your  place,  you  wooden 
idiot ;  hurry  up,  man ;  get  a  move  on  you  ;  now 
why  did  you  do  that  ?  Blankety  blank  !  Can't 
you  throw  a  ball  straight  ?  You  poor  miserable 
blank  nincompoop  ;  all  the  brains  you  have  are 
in  your  boots." 

And  so  it  went.     This  is  the  accompaniment 
[163] 


Letters    to    Edward 


to  which  we  dance  around  the  room  for  one 
long  hour.  No  other  voice  is  heard.  No  one 
dares  answer  back.  If  some  rash  fellow  were 
to  venture  on  such  a  hazardous  proceeding  he 
would,  no  doubt,  receive  wisdom  in  a  mem- 
orable way.  For  here  is  no  mercy  ;  here  is  no 
tenderness ;  here  is  no  favoritism ;  here  all  are 
alike ;  here  millionaire  and  senator  and  judge 
and  actor  and  preacher  are  all  on  the  same 
footing.  Elihu  Koot  left  a  few  days  before  I 
came  and  I  understand  he  was  leveled  with  the 
rest  of  the  men.  When  his  turn  came  to  get 
under  the  shower  bath,  it  was  not  "  Mr.  Root 
next,"  but  just  "  Root  next."  The  professor 
does  not  know  as  yet  that  I  am  a  preacher,  and 
I  do  not  propose  to  enlighten  him,  but  I  am 
told  that  the  cloth  has  not  the  slightest  influence 
on  his  vocabulary,  save  to  make  it  bluer  and 
more  livid  than  ever,  if  that  were  possible. 
When  the  hour  is  up  the  survivors,  breath- 
less and  spent,  drag  their  weary  limbs  into  the 
shower  room. 

At  ten  o'clock  we  are  ordered  to  the  equerry 
to  saddle  our  horses,  and  as  most  of  the  men 
have  had  little  or  no  experience  in  the  stirrups, 
[164] 


In    the    Stirrups 

the  straddle  and  horsemanship  are  quite  amus- 
ing. A  few,  of  course,  are  experts  and  can 
perform  equestrian  feats,  but  most  of  the  men 
are  not  rough  riders,  and  as  the  horses  are  all 
frisky  thoroughbreds  and  seem  to  understand 
that  they  are  out  for  a  caper,  and  that  their 
riders  are  not  cavaliers,  the  dance  and  pranks 
they  lead  them  are  worthy  of  a  hippodrome. 
Down  the  lane  the  cavalcade  passes  with  the  pro- 
fessor himself  setting  the  pace.  The  run  begins 
with  a  slow  rough  trot  in  which  the  rider  is  sup- 
posed to  sit  heavy  and  sore  in  his  saddle,  then 
follows  a  canter  for  another  five  miles,  while 
the  last  five  is  covered  in  a  gallop.  Some  of 
the  hills  of  Westchester  County  are  very  long 
and  some  quite  steep,  and  you  are  usually 
ordered  to  dismount  at  the  bottom  of  one  of 
these  grades,  and  lead  your  horse  up  the  half- 
mile  incline.  I  have  rarely  attempted  a  more 
perspiring  experiment,  for  you  are  supposed  to 
keep  up  with  the  leader  who,  himself  in  the 
saddle,  jogs  on  at  a  slow  trot,  and  what  with  a 
nervous  stallion  rearing  and  prancing  behind 
and  every  now  and  then  stepping  on  your  heels 
if  you  are  not  careful,  and  pushing  you  into  the 
[165] 


Letters    to    Edward 


gully,  it  is  not  a  Cambridge  constitutional  by 
any  means.  Once  we  were  taken  out  twelve 
miles  into  the  country,  told  to  dismount,  our 
horses  handed  over  to  some  of  his  men  who 
were  there  awaiting  our  arrival.  "  Now,"  said 
the  professor,  "  you  can  all  foot  it  home ;  you 
have  just  two  hours  till  dinner ;  I  will  look  for 
you  at  the  dinner-table."  And  we  all  showed 
up,  too.  AH  answered  to  their  names.  For  he 
was  there  to  give  us  his  gruff  welcome  and  to 
see  that  none  of  the  pilgrims  were  missing. 

Well,  Edward,  I  could  go  on  in  this  rambling 
way  for  a  long  time  but  I  must  not  weary  you. 
Sometimes  I  get  so  angry  at  the  old  man  that 
I  feel  like  challenging  him  out  into  the  open, 
only  my  better  judgment  tells  me  there  would 
be  little  left  of  me  after  the  bout,  but  then  again 
I  can  see  his  idea  through  it  all.  His  policy, 
as  I  intimated  already,  is  that  of  fear.  The  men 
who  come  here  are  mostly  nervous  wrecks,  hyp- 
ochondriacs and  introspectives,  men  who  have 
nothing  much  the  matter  with  them.  His  aim 
is  to  get  them  out  of  themselves.  And  love 
will  not  do  that,  sympathy  will  not  do  it,  kind- 
ness will  not  do  it,  encouragement  will  not  do 
[166] 


The    Power    of    Fear 

it ;  nothing  will  do  it  but  in  some  way  to  knock 
terror  into  them  through  his  own  strong,  com- 
manding, domineering,  intimidating  personality. 
I  have  almost  made  up  my  mind  to  preach  more 
about  hell  henceforward.  Because  it  would 
seem  as  if  there  were  some  people  that  need 
the  lash  to  bring  them  into  the  kingdom.  Of 
course  the  old  theologians  emphasized  it  over- 
much but  we  have  swung  to  the  other  extreme 
and  I  think  we  have  lost  in  so  doing.  I  see 
that  Fagan  in  his  recent  book,  "  The  Autobi- 
ography of  an  Individualist,"  says  that  fear  is 
a  moral  and  educative  force.  It  is,  he  claims, 
of  the  greatest  economic  and  spiritual  value. 
"  Perfect  love  casteth  out  fear,"  the  good  book 
says,  but  it  is  perfect  love ;  the  Apostle  puts 
the  emphasis  on  the  first  word.  It  is  fear  that 
prevents  love  from  being  perfect.  As  one's  love 
increases  his  fear  diminishes.  But  we  are  such 
imperfect  creatures  that  fear  has  its  ethical  sig- 
nificance. As  Muldoon  himself  puts  it  char- 
acteristically, "You  fellows'  bodies  are  all 
right ;  it's  your  minds  that  are  out  of  whack." 
So  all  are  afraid  of  him  ;  all  cower  in  his  pres- 
ence— and  he  knows  it.  When  he  is  out  of 
[167] 


Letters    to    Edward 


hearing  strong  criticisms  are  heard,  but  in  his 
presence  the  meekness  is  amusing.  His  whole 
philosophy  is  to  put  his  men  on  short  rations 
and  work  them  until  they  are  tired.  His  treat- 
ment is  massage  pure  and  simple  only  you  do 
your  own  massaging.  And  it  produces  results  ; 
no  doubt  about  it.  We  all  eat  too  much  and 
exercise  too  little. 

I  am  sleeping  already  like  a  top.  Sometimes 
in  the  evening  I  am  so  dead  weary  that  I  al- 
most keel  over  while  undressing.  And  in  the 
morning  when  that  knock  is  heard  on  the  door 
— oh,  for  another  half  hour  !  So  I  am  not  go- 
ing to  be  hard  on  the  old  man,  not  even  on  his 
profanity,  much  as  it  grates  on  me.  I  am  con- 
vinced that  it  is  simply  habitual.  And  I  doubt 
too  if  he  is  hard  at  heart.  Contrariwise,  in- 
deed, I  would  not  be  a  bit  surprised  to  learn  that 
he  is  tender-hearted,  and  that  his  whole  bearing 
is  acquired.  I  should  like  to  see  him  with  a 
little  child.  I  am  not  sure  that  he  would  not 
fondle  and  caress  the  little  thing.  But  if  you 
know  of  any  poor  fellows  who  have  gone  to 
pieces  nervously,  just  tell  them  there  is  a  place 
where  they  can  be  lifted  into  the  lap  of  Mor- 
[168] 


The    Strenuous    Life 

pheus  in  less  than  a  week,  and  thereafter  regu- 
larly every  night,  and  without  any  morphine 
either.  It  is  a  great  place  for  actors.  I  think 
half  the  men  here  at  present  are  broken-down 
actors.  No  liquors  of  any  kind  are  allowed. 
The  men  are  permitted  one  cigar  daily,  but 
only  one.  Of  course  that  does  not  worry  me. 
I  am  finishing  up  my  third  week  and  I  expect 
to  leave  to-morrow.  I  am  certainly  in  fighting 
form  and  feel  fit  for  a  fine  winter's  work.  I 
only  wish  that  you  were  as  well.  You  poor 
boy,  I  am  really  worried  over  you.  I  would 
advise  Muldoon's,  only  I  know  it  is  too  strenu- 
ous. Why  not  go  out  on  the  desert  for  a  few 
weeks  and  try  a  camping  trip?  Get  two  or 
three  nice  young  fellows ;  there  is  Watkins 
and  Andrews,  for  instance  ;  I  know  they  would 
be  glad  to  go  along.  But  it  is  now  five  min- 
utes of  nine  and  I  must  close.  You  see  all  the 
lights  are  put  out  at  nine  and  everybody  is  sent 
to  bed.  Half  the  men  are  off  already.  Some 
are  so  tired  that  they  go  right  after  supper. 
So  good-night.  And  with  much  love  believe 
me  faithfully  yours, 

MILCOLUMBUS. 
[169] 


Letters    to    Edward 


October  10,  1912. 
MY  DEAR  ED  WARD  : 

Well,  here  I  am  in  the  old  study  again, 
and  getting  things  arranged  for  another  win- 
ter's work.  My  congregation  will  not  be  back 
for  a  month  or  two  yet,  so  that  I  will  be  de- 
pendent for  an  audience  largely  on  the  stranger. 
Goodness  knows  there  are  enough  of  this  class 
hereabouts  any  Sunday,  if  one  could  only  turn 
their  steps  Zionward.  As  it  is  1  fear  that  most 
of  them  sleep  or  go  sightseeing.  Really,  Ed- 
ward, New  York  churches  only  have  their  own 
people  about  four  months  in  the  year. 

I  never  have  my  mail  forwarded  on  vaca- 
tions, and  you  ought  to  see  the  pile  of  stuff 
that  lies  before  me  on  the  desk.  It  looks  right 
formidable.  The  secretary  and  I  have  been  all 
morning  opening  the  letters  and  answering 
them  and  we  are  only  about  a  third  through, 
and  fully  half  of  these  are  begging  letters.  I 
have  the — well,  the  good  fortune  shall  I  say  ? 
— to  have  in  my  church  a  very  estimable  and 
rich  lady  who  is  known  the  world  over  for  her 
[170] 


A    Rich    Philanthropist 

philanthropy.  She  is  the  best  friend  that  our 
church  has,  and  no  one  could  be  kinder  or 
lovelier  to  me  personally,  but  everybody  seems 
to  think  that  I  am  her  financial  adviser,  and 
so  they  write  asking  if  I  will  not  act  as  inter- 
cessor for  their  pet  schemes.  I  pay  no  atten- 
tion to  them,  of  course,  but  you  ought  to 
read  some  of  the  appeals.  Some  pretty  nearly 
make  us  cry  and  some  make  us  laugh.  Keally, 
some  are  too  absurd  for  anything.  You  would 
not  suppose  there  were  so  many  fools  in  the 
world.  "We  have  opened  twenty-three  of  these 
epistles  already.  One  is  from  a  man  up  in 
Canada  who  hopes  I  will  take  pity  on  him  be- 
cause I  am  a  Canadian.  Another  is  from  a 
woman  out  in  California  who  wants  to  endow 
a  theatre  there.  She  says  she  has  been  to  hear 
you  preach  several  times  and  volunteers  the 
information  that  you  are  "just  lovely."  I 
have  half  a  notion  to  mail  you  some  of  the 
appeals  only  I  know  you  have  not  the  time  to 
read  them. 

They  all  seem  to  think  that  I  have  the  whole 
say  in   the   disposition   of  enormous   sums  of 
money,  or  at  any  rate  that  ray  word  and  rec- 
[171] 


Letters    to    Edward 


ommendation  are  law.  If  they  knew  that  I 
have  never  asked  anybody  for  a  dollar,  and 
never  mean  to  if  I  can  possibly  help  it,  they 
would  save  themselves  a  deal  of  trouble.  My 
desire  is  to  protect  my  parishioners,  not  to 
worry  them.  Goodness  knows,  they  have 
worries  enough  without  their  pastor  adding 
to  them.  I  really  think,  Edward,  if  I  had  one 
hundred  million  dollars  it  would  drive  me  crazy. 
I  learned  a  good  lesson  from  a  story  they  tell  of 
my  predecessor  here.  The  trustees  of  a  certain 
college  in  which  he  happened  to  be  interested 
were  trying  to  raise  an  endowment,  so  he  was 
commissioned  to  approach  a  certain  wealthy 
lady  in  the  congregation  for  a  gift  of  quite 
considerable  dimensions.  He  had  never  done 
anything  of  the  kind  before,  and  although  it 
went  against  the  grain,  still  the  urgency  was 
so  great  that  he  decided  for  just  this  once  to 
break  the  precedent  he  had  established.  She 
was  then  at  her  country  home,  and  thither  the 
doctor  and  his  good  wife  went  one  afternoon  in 
fear  and  trembling  to  present  the  appeal.  She 
saw  them  coming  up  the  walk  and  hastened  to 
the  door  to  greet  them.  "  Oh,"  she  exclaimed, 
[172] 


Begging    Letters 


"  I'm  so  glad  to  see  some  one  who  is  not  look- 
ing for  money.  I've  had  fifteen  beggars  to-day 
already.  I'm  so  glad  to  see  my  minister."  Of 
course  that  put  a  quietus  to  the  little  speech  he 
had  prepared. 

But  I  must  halt,  as  I  have  such  a  mass  of 
work  before  me.  The  worst  of  these  vacations 
is  the  getting  into  harness  again,  and  making  it 
feel  comfortable.  The  daily  "  doing  nothing  " 
becomes  a  habit,  and  my,  what  tyrants  these 
habits  of  ours  are !  Guess  I'm  naturally  lazy. 
It  is  now  Thursday  morning  and  I  have  not  the 
remotest  idea  what  to  preach  on  Sunday.  For- 
tunately I  have  but  one  service.  I  think  I 
shall  have  to  go  back  to  the  barrel  because  I 
am  one  of  those  who  simply  cannot  write  a 
sermon  in  two  days.  It  usually  means  more 
like  two  weeks.  I  see  that  Jefferson  in  his 
book,  "The  Building  of  the  Church,"  claims 
that  after  a  few  years'  experience  a  pastor 
ought  to  be  able  to  write  a  sermon  in  a  morn- 
ing, and  thus  save  himself  several  days  each 
week  for  other  studies.  This  would  never  in 
the  world  suit  me.  With  me  my  whole  work 
is  my  sermon.  It  evolves  itself  by  a  sort  of 
[173] 


Letters    to    Edward 


secret  gestation,  I  usually  have  from  six  to 
ten  texts  soaking  in  my  mind  at  once.  Then 
everything  becomes  tributary  to  some  one  of 
them.  Then  I  write  it  and  rewrite  it  and 
sometimes  re-rewrite  it,  and  I  am  usually  add- 
ing and  subtracting  and  patching  and  polish- 
ing till  the  very  last  moment.  I  hardly  ever 
preach  a  sermon  till  I  feel  it  is  as  good  as  I, 
with  my  little  one  talent,  can  possibly  make  it. 
The  idea  of  writing  a  sermon  in  a  morning, 
and  then  going  to  some  other  reading,  would 
be  entirely  unworkable  in  my  case.  I  save  my 
early  mornings,  and  my  evenings  that  are  dis- 
engaged, for  a  regular  course  of  general  read- 
ing. Then  I  am  al  ways  glad  for  stormy  weather 
because  it  leaves  me  the  whole  day  with  my 
books.  But  from  nine  to  twelve  every  morn- 
ing I  am  pegging  away  religiously  at  Sunday's 
sermons.  So  I  must  hurry  and  get  to  work. 
I  am  afraid  you  will  not  be  able  to  read  this 
scrawl  but  my  pen  is  simply  atrocious.  Doesn't 
a  cantankerous  pen  annoy  you  ?  Good-bye  and 
believe  me  ever  faithfully, 

MlLCOLUMBUS. 


What's  Wrong  With  the  Music? 


October  15,  1912. 
MY  DEAR  EDWAKD  : 

I  have  just  got  back  from  morning  wor- 
ship and  as  we  have  no  evening  service  this 
month,  I  am  going  to  fill  in  the  afternoon  with 
a  little  chat  with  you.  To-night  I  think  I  will 
go  down  and  hear  Parker.  Everything  passed 
off  fairly  well  this  morning  except  the  music. 
We  did  not  have  such  a  bad  turn  out  consider- 
ing that  it  is  so  early  in  the  season.  To  be  sure 
the  auditorium  was  not  densely  packed,  but 
then  we  are  never  troubled  much  with  that 
sort  of  specific  gravity  at  our  corner.  I 
preached  on  "  Oh,  how  I  love  Thy  law  ;  it  is 
my  meditation  all  the  day,"  and  I  tried  to  en- 
courage a  deeper  and  more  systematic  study  of 
the  Word  as  being  the  only  way  to  learn  and 
love  it. 

But  you  know  the  music  did  not  suit  me; 
we  are  having  such  trouble  with  our  organ. 
The  pieces  were  classical  and  well  rendered  and 
all  that,  for  we  have  a  grand  choir,  one  of  the 
very  best  in  the  city  (indeed,  I  think  the  best), 
[175] 


Letters    to    Edward 


but  the  selections  were  unfortunate.  They 
were  not  appropriate.  Two  of  them  had  to  be 
changed  the  last  moment  on  account  of  the 
organ  going  wrong.  Out  "West  the  biggest 
trouble  I  used  to  have  with  the  singers  was 
trying  to  get  them  to  sing  devotional  music. 
They  seemed  to  think  that  as  they  were  pro- 
fessionals they  must  give  us  something  ornate, 
so  that  the  whole  effect  was  apt  to  be  cold  and 
critical.  I  am  glad  to  be  able  to  say  that  that 
is  not  the  case  here.  It  is  a  perfect  delight  to 
work  with  my  choir.  They  are  all  professing 
Christians,  and  earnestly  so. 

Keally,  Edward,  I  think  half  our  churches 
to-day  are  going  music-mad.  It  takes  a  lot 
of  pulpit  grace  sometimes  to  bear  up  under 
what  we  hear  in  the  choir  loft.  Sometimes  it 
takes  the  preacher  five  or  ten  minutes  to  over- 
come the  ill  effects  of  the  solo  rendered  just 
before  the  sermon.  Last  Sunday  evening  for 
instance,  I  went  down  to  hear  Gordon.  For 
their  offertory  selection  they  had  a  tenor 
recitative  from  Hayden's  "Creation.*  And 
the  rendering  of  it  was  a  triumph  of  vocal 
skill,  for  the  man  certainly  has  a  splendid  voice, 
[176] 


Classical    Music 


and  the  piece  is  a  beautiful  thing  in  its  place, 
only  its  place  is  in  some  music  hall  where  the 
whole  oratorio  can  be  rendered,  instead  of  hav- 
ing a  bar  or  two  wrenched  from  its  setting  and 
given  while  the  offering  is  being  taken.  Think 
of  getting  up  and  trying  to  preach  on  "The 
love  of  Christ  constraineth  us  "  after  such  words 
as  these : 


"  And  God  said,  Let  the  earth  bring  forth 
the  living  creature  after  its  kind,  cattle,  and 
creeping  thing,  and  beast  of  the  earth,  after  his 
kind. 

u  Straight  responding  to  the  call 
The  earth  obeyed  the  word, 
And  teemed  creatures  numberless, 
lu  perfect  forms  and  fully  grown. 
Cheerful,  roaring,  stands  tbe  tawny  lion.    With 

sudden  leap 

The  flexible  tiger  appears.     The  nimble  stag 
Bears  up  his  branching  head.     With  flying 

mane, 
And  fiery  look,   impatient  neighs  the  noble 

steed. 

The  cattle  in  herds  already  seek  their  food 
On  fields  and  meadows  green. 
And  o'er  the  ground,  as  plants,  are  spread 
The  fleecy,  meek,  and  bleating  flocks ; 
Unnumbered  as  the  sands,  in  swarms  arose 
The  hosts  of  insects.     In  long  dimension 
Creeps,  with  sinuous  trace,  the  worm. 

cm] 


Letters    to    Edward 


"  Now  heaven  in  fullest  glory  shone  ; 
Earth  smiled  in  all  her  rich  attire  ; 
The  room  of  air  with  fowl  is  tilled. 
The  water  swell'd  by  shoals  of  fish  ; 
By  heavy  beasts  the  ground  is  trod  ; 
But  all  the  work  was  not  complete  ; 
They  wanted  yet  that  wondrous  being, 
That,  grateful,  should  God's  power  admire, 
With  heart  and  voice  His  goodness  praise. " 

Now  wasn't  that  a  regular  menagerie  of  a 
piece,  and  it  took  just  exactly  fifteen  minutes 
to  sing  it.  Why,  I  felt  as  if  I  were  walking 
through  Bronx  Park.  "  Tawny  lion,"  "flexible 
tiger,"  "nimble stag,"  "neighing  steed,"  " fleecy 
flocks,"  "  sinuous  worm,"  "  shoals  of  fish."  I  can 
hear  the  roar  of  that  shaggy  lion  still.  Oh,  I 
long  sometimes  for  some  of  the  good  old 
standbys,  "I  need  Thee  every  hour,"  "Jesus 
Lover  of  my  soul,"  "  Kock  of  Ages,"  "  What  a 
Friend  we  have  in  Jesus,"  and  not  set  to  some 
newfangled  air  either,  but  just  the  gospel  tunes 
that  our  mothers  taught  us  when  we  were  tots. 
I  tell  you  it  is  what  the  people  want ;  it  is  what 
they  like,  and  it  does  them  good.  I  dislike 
rag-time  as  much  as  anybody.  I  think  with 
our  President  that  the  "Beautiful  Isle  of 
Somewhere "  is  silly,  but  then  I  am  not 
[178] 


The    Paid    Quartette 

talking  about  that ;  that  again  is  the  other  ex- 
treme. 

The  trouble,  Edward,  you  see,  is  that  the 
singers  in  our  metropolitan  choirs  are  not  as  a 
rule  professing  Christians.  Ours  are,  and  it  is 
a  perfect  joy  to  see  them  join  with  us  and  take 
the  sacrament  on  communion  Sundays.  But 

Dr. tells  me  that  in  his  church,  which 

is  one  of  the  largest  and  most  influential 
churches  in  Brooklyn,  of  the  four  members  of 
his  quartette  not  one  is  a  member  of  any  de- 
nomination. The  soprano  is  a  Roman  Catholic, 
the  alto  is  a  theosophist,  the  bass  is  an  agnostic, 
and  the  tenor  is  nibbling  at  Christian  Science. 
Now,  isn't  that  a  mix-up  ?  Really,  I  sometimes 
feel,  especially  when  I  am  told  of  such  a  condi- 
tion as  this,  that  the  Church  would  be  ad- 
vantaged and  blessed  if  she  were  to  do  away 
with  her  paid  quartettes  entirely,  and  return  to 
the  old  precentor  style  and  have  a  ringing  joy- 
ful noise  from  the  congregation.  As  it  goes, 
half  the  people  in  our  congregations  do  not  sing 
even  the  hymns  any  more.  They  seem  to  have 
lost  their  voices  through  atrophy  and  neglect. 

Henry  Ward  Beecher  once  preached  a  sermon 
[179] 


Letters    to    Edward 


on  the  mission  of  music  in  the  Church.     I  wish 
every  choir  might  read  it.     Here  is  an  extract. 


"  Singing  is  that  natural  method  by  which 
thoughts  are  reduced  to  feeling,  more  easily, 
more  surely,  and  more  universally  than  by  any 
other.  You  are  conscious  when  you  go  to  an 
earnest  meeting,  for  instance,  that,  while  hymns 
are  being  sung  and  you  listen  to  them,  your 
heart  is,  as  it  were,  loosened,  and  there  comes 
out  of  those  hymns  to  you  a  realization  of  the 
truth  such  as  you  never  had  before.  There  is 
a  pleading  element,  there  is  a  sense  of  humilia- 
tion of  heart,  there  is  a  poignant  realization  of 
sin  and  its  guiltiness,  there  is  a  yearning  for  a 
brighter  life  in  a  hymn  which  you  do  not  find 
in  your  closet ;  and,  in  singing,  you  come  in  sym- 
pathy with  the  truth  as  you  perhaps  never  do 
under  the  preaching  of  a  discourse.  There  is  a 
provision  made  in  singing  for  the  development 
of  almost  every  phase  of  Christian  experience. 
Singing  has  also  a  wonderful  effect  upon  those 
feelings  which  we  wish  to  restrain.  All  are  not 
alike  susceptible,  but  all  are  susceptible  to  some 
extent.  I  speak  with  emphasis  on  this  point,  be- 
cause I  am  particularly  sensitive  to  singing,  and 
because  I  owe  so  much  to  it.  How  many  times 
have  I  come  into  the  church  on  Sunday  morn- 
ing jaded  and  somewhat  desponding,  saddened 
at  any  rate,  and  before  the  organ  voluntar}' 
was  completed,  undergone  a  change  as  great  as 
though  I  had  been  taken  out  of  January  and 
been  plumped  down  into  the  middle  of  May, 
[180] 


Beecher    On    Church    Music 

with  spring  blossoms  on  every  hand  !  How 
many,  many  times  I  have  been  lifted  out  of  a 
depressed  state  of  mind  into  a  cheerful  mood  by 
the  singing  before  I  began  to  preach !  How 
often  in  looking  forward  to  the  Friday  night 
meeting  has  my  prevailing  thought  been,  not 
of  what  I  was  going  to  say,  but  of  the  hymns 
that  would  be  sung  !  My  prayer-meeting  con- 
sists largely  of  the  singing  of  hymns  which  are 
full  of  prayings,  and  my  predominant  thought 
in  connection  with  our  Friday  night  gatherings 
is,  *  Oh,  that  sweet,  joyful  singing ! ' ' 

Well,  to-night  I  am  going  down  to  hear 
Parker.  Last  Sunday  evening,  as  I  said,  I 
heard  Gordon  and  I  enjoyed  him  greatly. 
Gordon  is  one  of  the  strong  pulpit  forces  on 
Manhattan  Island.  He  is  the  peer  of  any  one 
of  our  coming  young  men.  He  has  a  big  com- 
manding presence  and  a  still  bigger  heart.  The 
clasp  of  his  hand  is  as  stimulating  as  a  bottle  of 
wine.  It  does  one  good  just  to  receive  his 
greeting.  His  sermon  was  a  call  to  do  some- 
thing. "  For  a  quarter  of  a  century,"  he  said, 
"  conferences  and  congresses  and  public  meet- 
ings have  been  in  vogue ;  the  multiplication  of 
meetings  has  become  a  weariness  to  the  flesh. 
There  has  grown  up  a  savage  lust  for  talk.  If 
[181] 


Letters    to    Edward 


a  church  becomes  spiritually  low  the  members 
salve  their  consciences  by  saying,  '  Let  us 
hold  a  conference  and  discuss  the  matter  ; '  or 
they  say,  *  Let  us  arrange  for  a  banquet  and 
have  some  after  dinner  speakers  to  inspire  us.' 
It  is  not  more  talk  the  Church  needs  or  more 
meetings,  but  more  definite  concrete  work.  I 
am  not  sure  indeed  that  this  ceaseless  round  of 
meetings  with  their  star  speakers  and  adver- 
tisements is  not  injuring  the  higher  life  of 
the  kingdom.  If  each  one  of  you  would  go 
out  this  week  and  bring  one  little  boy  or  girl 
into  the  Sunday-school,  and  take  a  personal 
oversight  of  the  child,  you  would  be  doing 
something ;  that  is  certainly  what  our  church 
here  needs.  We  are  not  suffering  from  a  dearth 
of  talkers ;  what  we  want  is  a  crop  of  workers." 
"Well,  the  whole  discourse  was  rich  in  food. 
He  touched,  I  firmly  believe,  the  very  nerve  of 
our  weakness  to-day.  Gordon  is  a  great  man 
and  he  is  going  to  be  heard  from  one  of  these 
days.  To-night  I  am  going  down  to  hear  Par- 
ker. Parker  is  another  man  to  be  reckoned  with 
in  this  mad  commercial  hurly  burly.  He  has 
been  thundering  the  truth  here  on  Fifth  Avenue 
[182] 


The  Simple  Gospel  a  Big  Success 

for  twenty  years  and  in  no  uncertain  words 
either.  And  during  all  that  time  he  has  kept 
his  big  auditorium  full  both  morning  and  even- 
ing and  with  no  other  drawing  card  than  his 
own  presentation  of  the  simple  truth.  I  tell 
you,  Edward,  that  is  a  great  record  when  we 
consider  that  he  has  nothing  but  business  blocks 
all  about  him  to-day.  The  fact  is  the  only 
preachers  on  Manhattan  Island  who  will  have 
a  decent  audience  to-night  are  the  preachers 
who  are  sticking  to  the  simple  gospel.  Now 
that  is  a  fact,  and  it  ought  to  be  an  eye-opener 
to  the  rest  of  us,  don't  you  think  ?  But  I  will 

write   you  of  my  visit  to  next  time. 

Meanwhile,  believe  me 

Ever  faithfully  yours, 
MILCOLUMBUS. 


[183] 


Letters    to    Edward 


October  30, 
MY  DEAR  EDWAKD  : 

I  have  been  racking  my  poor  brain  all 
the  morning  over  an  Old  Testament  text.  I 
got  out  my  Hebrew  Bible  and  my  Gesenius  and 
tried  to  wade  through  the  chapter  in  the 
original  but  I  tell  you  it  was  aggravatingly 
slow,  turtle-like  work.  Between  poor  footing 
(or  poor  grounding  shall  I  say?)  and  cross 
currents,  and  deep  water  in  spots,  I  had  quite  a 
struggle.  One  or  two  channels  I  had  to  swim 
outright  and  I  never  was  much  of  a  swimmer 
anyway,  and  when  it  comes  to  Oriental  waters 
I  need  life-preservers  and  all  sorts  of  buoyant 
appliances  to  keep  me  afloat.  But  joking  aside 
I  wish  I  had  kept  up  my  Semitic  acquaintance. 
It  never  was  very  extensive  to  be  sure,  but  I 
suppose  I  could  have  made  myself  passable. 

I  do  so  want  to  get  my  bearings  on  the  Old 
Testament  and  find  out  just  how  far  its  histor- 
ical accuracy  extends.  Of  course  it  is  a  question 
in  the  last  analysis  for  scholars  but  they 
are  so  unsatisfactory — they  differ  so!  My 
[  184  ]  * 


Keeping    Up    One's    Hebrew 

ignorance  of  these  great  critical  questions  is 
appalling  and  it  worries  me.  I  have  not  allowed 
my  Greek  to  hide  away  and  fall  into  such 
lamentable  rust  I  am  glad  to  say,  for  I  read  a 
chapter  every  morning  and  thoroughly  enjoy  it 
too,  but  my  Hebrew  manoeuvering  is  vanity 
and  vexation  of  spirit. 

The  chapter  I  have  been  laboring  this  morn- 
ing is  the  old  familiar  one,  the  fifty-third  of 
Isaiah.  I  started  to  write  a  sermon  on  that 
fourth  verse,  "  Surely  He  hath  borne  our  griefs 
and  carried  our  sorrows."  God  comes  so  close 
to  us  in  sorrow.  Do  you  know  I  really  think 
we  never  fully  grasp  the  reality  of  God  until 
we  have  either  loved  or  sorrowed.  I  have  just 
been  reading  Forbes  Robinson's  "  Letters  to  his 
friends."  He  says,  "  We  cannot  get  over  sorrow 
but  we  can  get  into  it,"  and  when  we  do  get 
into  it  we  find  right  in  the  heart  of  the  mystery 
our  best  friend — the  Man  of  Sorrows  Himself. 

I  have  been  thinking  a  good  deal  of  late  of 
these  words  of  the  Apostle,  "Counted  worthy 
to  suffer."  They  seem  so  wonderful  and  far 
beyond  me.  I  had  often  read  them  without 
their  making  much  of  an  impression,  but  some 
[185] 


Letters    to    Edward 


months  ago  I  came  across  a  little  story  in 
Griffith  John's  life  and  do  you  know  it  light- 
ened up  the  whole  passage  surprisingly.  The 
story  goes  on  to  tell  how,  when  that  great 
hero  was  surrounded  one  day  by  a  hostile  mob 
who  were  beating  him  and  clamoring  for  his 
life,  he  put  up  his  handkerchief  to  his  face  to 
wipe  the  perspiration  away  and  when  he  looked 
at  it  it  was  covered  with  blood,  and  then  he 
confesses  how  all  at  once  a  great  joy  possessed 
him  because  something  like  a  revelation  came 
that  he  had  been  counted  worthy  to  give  these 
few  drops  for  the  cause  and  the  Leader  he  loved. 
And  would  you  believe  it,  since  reading  that 
little  story  the  verse  hasn't  seemed  nearly  so 
remote,  and  I  have  been  even  wondering  if  there 
is  not  good  reason  to  doubt  our  loyalty  if  we  are 
not  willing  to  suffer  too.  Is  not  to  follow  Him 
to  take  up  our  cross  ?  "What  is  discipleship  if  it 
is  not  cross-bearing  ?  And  is  not  suffering  part 
of  that  cross?  Does  not  /  believe  imply  He- 
long  f  And  if  we  belong  to  Him  are  we  not 
His  property  to  be  used  and  marked  as  to  Him 
seemeth  best  ? 

And  then,  besides,  is  it  not  also  true  that  as 
[186] 


The    Marks    of   the    Master 

\ve  climb  towards  perfection  we  climb  towards 
the  possibility  of  pain  ?  Is  not  suffering  the 
endowment  of  a  sensitive  nature  ?  Who  more 
sensitive  than  the  great  Sufferer?  Why,  the 
Apostle  sometimes  amazes  me  with  how  in- 
sistent he  is  in  proclaiming  that  in  the  king- 
dom of  our  Lord  it  is  a  privilege  to  suffer.  He 
says,  "  Now  I  rejoice  in  my  sufferings."  It  was 
like  a  medal  a  hero  wears.  The  superlative 
favor  would  seem  to  be  ordained  to  this  honor. 
It  is  one  of  the  advanced  degrees.  "From 
henceforth,"  he  cries  out,  and  there  is  a  touch 
of  triumph  in  the  rising  tone,  "  From  hence- 
forth let  no  man  trouble  me  for  I  bear  in  my 
body  the  marks  of  the  Lord  Jesus." 

And  not  only  do  we  please  Him  by  bearing 
our  burdens  manfully  and  bravely  and  joyously 
but  the  lessons  we  learn  in  this  school  are  so 
unspeakably  precious  and  sweet.  Samuel 
Eutherford  used  to  say  that  whenever  he  found 
himself  in  the  cellar  of  affliction  he  always 
looked  about  him  for  the  wine.  Lanier's  lines 
have  such  a  genuine  ring  to  them  because  I 
suppose  he  sang  them  out  of  his  own  sad  expe- 
rience : 

[187] 


Letters    to    Edward 


"The  dark  hath  many  dear  avails; 
The  dark  distils  divinest  dews  ; 
The  dark  is  rich  with  nightingales, 
With  dreams,  and  with  the  heavenly  muse." 

Benson  tells  us  of  a  chum  of  his  who  started  to 
make  a  record  trip  through  life.  He  was  un- 
usually gifted.  Reaching  up  one  day  in  his  li- 
brary for  a  book  he  slipped  and  fell.  Curvature 
ensued.  He  was  placed  on  the  shelf  with  "  other 
cracked  jars."  There  was  resentment  and 
bitterness  for  a  time,  until  one  day  the  truth 
dawned  that  although  on  the  shelf  he  could 
serve  in  a  ruined  temple.  It  was  a  wonderful 
discovery.  And  it  is.  It  seems  to  me  there  is 
no  discovery  like  it.  Because  it  enables  the 
soul  cast  down  to  say,  "  Thy  will  be  done." 
And  it  seems  to  me,  to  be  able  to  say  that  from 
the  depths  of  one's  heart  is  after  all  the  Chris- 
tian's greatest  victory.  Do  you  not  think  so  ? 
Tell  me  how  you  feel  about  it. 

Ever  faithfully  yours, 

MlLCOLUMBTJS. 


[188] 


Church    Unity 


November  1 
MY  DEAR  EDWARD  : 

It  has  been  another  rainy  day  and  I 
have  spent  most  of  the  time  trying  to  write  a 
sermon  on  Church  unity.  So  to-night  before  I 
read  my  little  chapter  and  retire,  I  thought  I 
would  sit  down  and  drop  you  a  line  although  it 
is  now  eleven  o'clock. 

I  have  been  thinking  of  late  about  our  un- 
fortunate church  divisions.  A  catholic  priest 
came  in  the  other  day  to  see  me  and  talk  over 
some  of  his  troubles.  He  is  a  member  of  the 
Passionist  order,  and  has  been  twenty-two 
years  a  priest,  but  he  is  thinking  very  seriously 
of  leaving  the  society,  as  he  calls  it.  He  is  dis- 
satisfied and  feels  that  there  is  something  bet- 
ter. So  he  came  to  have  a  preliminary  talk 
with  me  and  ask  which  branch  of  the  Protes- 
tant communion  I  would  advise  him  to  enter. 
"Well,  do  you  know  when  I  thought  of  the  one- 
ness of  the  body  he  was  leaving,  and  the  divi- 
sions and  partitions  of  the  faith  he  was  embrac- 
ing, I  was  half  ashamed.  And  then  when  he 
[189] 


Letters    to    Edward 


came  straight  out  and  asked  me  for  the  differ- 
ence between  the  Presbyterian  and  Dutch  Re- 
formed Church,  I  was  really  uncomfortable. 
I  must  have  blushed  without  for  I  felt  the  red 
tide  rising  within.  Although  I  was  born  and 
reared  a  Scotch  Presbyterian  and  am  now  a 
member  in  good  and  regular  standing  of  the 
Dutch  Reformed  classis,  I  have  never  hesitated 
to  say  that  there  is  about  as  much  good  reason 
for  the  two  organizations  as  there  is  for  two 
pens  in  this  penholder.  It  is  inexcusable,  it  is 
wasteful,  it  is  sinful.  "  The  distinction  is  in- 
visible to  the  naked  eye." 

And  it  is  so  nearly  everywhere  we  turn  in 
the  whole  visible  fellowship.  First  of  all  are 
the  national  lines — Roman,  Greek,  Anglican, 
Coptic,  Nestorian.  Then  we  have  groups 
named  after  some  great  leader — Lutherans, 
Calvinists,  Wesley ans,  Arminians,  Sweden- 
borgians.  Then  we  have  the  sects  that  differ 
over  the  ordinances,  Mennonites,  Friends,  Bap- 
tists, Plymouth  Brethren,  et  cetera.  Dear, 
dear,  what  a  welter  and  confusion.  Isn't  it 
sad  ?  I  am  very  fond  of  Baring  Gould's  hymn 
"Onward  Christian  Soldiers,"  but  I  always 
[190] 


Church    Unity 

say,  "  We  will  omit  the  second  stanza,  please." 
For  to  listen  to  a  great  congregation  standing 
up  and  joining  heartily  in  the  lines, 

"  We  are  not  divided,  all  one  body  we  ; 
One  in  faith  and  doctrine,  one  in  charity," 

always  brings  one  of  these  same  scarlet  tinges 
to  my  cheeks. 

I  began  my  ministry  in  a  little  town  in  Mis- 
souri. Ours  was  called  the  Presbyterian  Church 
North  ;  our  brethren  right  across  the  street  were 
called  Cumberland  Presbyterians,  and  a  stone's 
throw  down  the  same  street  was  a  little  shack  of 
a  meeting-house  called  the  Presbyterian  Church 
South.  There  were  three  of  us  pastors  minister- 
ing to  about  three  hundred  people  and  our  com- 
bined salaries  was  less  than  five  hundred  dol- 
lars. Of  course  this  was  supplemented  by  the 
Boards.  It  impressed  me  for  all  time  and  I 
have  never  forgotten  the  lesson  I  learned  and 
the  harm  that  a  few  ecclesiastical  politicians 
can  do  in  a  small  place. 

The  other  day  I  was  glancing  over  a  new 
book  on  Japan.  The  author  was  saying  that  in 
Tokio  there  are  twenty-one  different  Protestant 
[191] 


Letters    to    Edward 


missions  on  one  public  square.  And  I  thought 
how  confusing  to  an  Oriental  it  must  surely  be 
to  find  the  way  of  life  with  twenty-one  guides 
directing  him.  The  barbarity  of  an  island  we 
know  can  be  gauged  largely  by  the  multi- 
plicity of  its  dialects.  I  am  told  that  in  some 
of  the  South  Sea  Islands  there  is  sometimes  a 
different  dialect  every  five  miles.  And  I  think 
too  that  the  crudeness  of  our  Christianity  is 
found  not  infrequently  in  the  varieties  of  its 
expression.  I  was  struck  on  reading  what  Wu 
Ting  Fang,  our  late  Chinese  ambassador,  said 
recently.  In  the  course  of  an  address  he  made 
this  remark,  "  The  weak  point  in  the  religious 
life  of  America  is  its  '  dissevered  condition.' " 
That,  mark  you,  from  a  Chinaman. 

And,  Edward,  there  is  not  the  slightest  doubt 
in  my  mind  about  it.  What  is  the  trouble  with 
us  here  in  New  York,  for  instance  ?  Why 
do  we  stand  so  helpless  before  these  gigantic 
wrongs  ?  We  might  as  well  be  frank  and  own 
up.  It  is  largely  because  we  do  not  meet  the 
enemy  with  a  common  front.  Like  the  Rus- 
sians we  are  firing  half  the  time  on  our  own 
fleet.  Stonewall  Jackson  was  out  reconnoiter- 
[192] 


Church    Unity 

ing  when  he  was  shot  by  his  own  men.  .  .  . 
Christians  who  hope  to  gather  around  the  table 
of  our  Lord  above  refuse  to  meet  around  His 
table  here  below.  Isn't  it  pathetic  ?  .  .  . 
I  remember  in  those  good  old  days  long  ago 
when  we  used  to  play  football  we  said  in  our 
team  that  while  brilliant  individual  playing 
was  all  right  yet  the  game  was  won  by  team 
work.  I  wonder  how  long  it  is  going  to  take 
the  Church  to  learn  that  lesson.  The  Balkan 
States  have  learned  it  with  profit.  I  declare 
our  cleavages  are  about  as  irrelevant  to  any 
real  efficiency  as  the  old  weapons  in  the  Tower 
of  London  would  be  to  the  war  in  Macedonia. 

Why  has  the  Catholic  Church  such  an  influ- 
ence in  our  land  ?  Or  the  Christian  Science 
body  ?  Mr.  Burton  tells  us  that  it  is  impossible 
to-day  to  get  a  line  in  any  Boston  paper  that 
reflects  on  Mrs.  Eddy  or  her  work.  Why,  we 
Protestants  will  never  capture  the  press  of  this 
country  until  they  are  a  little  more  afraid  of  us 
than  they  are  now.  All  these  editorial  slurs  at 
religion  would  never  be  if  we  commanded  a 
wholesome  fighting  respect.  But  there  you 
are.  We  do  not  speak  with  the  slightest  au- 
[193] 


Letters    to    Edward 


thority  because  we  do  not  seem  to  realize  that 
"In  Union  is  Strength."  Then  look,  too,  at 
the  extensions  we  have  lost.  Why  is  it  that  so 
many  charitable  institutions  are  no  longer  under 
our  whig?  They  once  were  part  of  us  but 
they  have  drifted  away.  I  could  count  dozens 
of  earnest  women  in  our  own  local  parish  here 
who  are  spending  a  day  a  week,  and  some 
of  them  two  days,  down  in  some  nursery  or 
Y.  W.  C.  A.  or  settlement  work,  in  organiza- 
tions that  have  no  connection  whatever  with 
any  visible  branch  of  the  kingdom,  and  yet 
these  very  organizations  were  started  originally 
by  the  Church  and  they  are  still  financed  and 
run  by  Christian  people.  "Why  is  it  ? 

Edward,  I  believe,  as  I  told  you  once  before, 
that  the  day  is  coming,  and  I  am  not  so  sure 
that  it  is  as  far  off  as  we  think,  when  we  will 
have  only  two  denominations  in  this  country- 
Protestant  and  Catholic.  I  will  not  live  to  see 
it  nor  will  you,  but  I  am  confident  it  is  coming. 
And  I  think  we  ought  to  pray  and  work  for  its 
speedy  approach.  I  believe  that  good  brother 
was  right  when  he  said  it  ought  to  be  the  di- 
vine ideal  of  denominations  to  labor  for  their 
[194] 


Church    Unity 

own  extinction.  Sometimes  I  hear  ministers 
plead  for  inorganic  unity  but  what  I  want  to 
see  myself  is  organic  unity.  The  inorganic  idea 
is  too  hazy  for  me.  What  I  want  to  see  is  the 
unity  of  mercury  when  the  little  drops  run  to- 
gether and  become  one,  only  a  larger  one.  I 
notice  that  in  Montreal  this  fall  four  theological 
seminaries  are  becoming  affiliated  to  McGill, 
the  churches  represented  being  Presbyterian, 
Congregational,  Methodist  and  Episcopal.  That 
is  a  step  in  the  right  line.  We  had  Canon  Hen- 
son  with  us  the  other  day.  He  told  us  at  our 
Ministers'  Union  that  if  he  could  have  his  way 
he  would  go  about  the  land  blowing  up  all  our 
denominational  seminaries  with  dynamite.  I 
do  not  think  we  need  to  invite  any  such  mili- 
tant method  as  that.  It  seems  to  me  the 
Montreal  way  is  much  the  better  and  saner. 

Sometimes  when  I  begin  to  talk  about  Church 
Unity  my  friends  come  to  me  and  enlarge  on 
their  traditions.  I  always  feel  like  saying  to 
them,  "What  we  want  is  unity  and  love  and 
peace,  not  tradition."  Christ  did  not  pray  for 
our  traditions.  He  prayed  for  truth,  for  sancti- 
fication  through  the  truth.  He  prayed  that  we 
[195] 


Letters    to    Edward 


all  might  be  one.  The  Church  was  meant  to  be 
a  family.  The  idea  of  a  family  is  that  we  are 
all  of  the  same  blood  and  that  we  all  bear  the 
same  name,  and  that  love  is  the  connecting  link. 
Our  Blessed  Lord  founded  His  Church  not  to 
be  a  form  nor  a  guild  nor  a  ritual  but  to  be  "  a 
loving  union  of  men  and  women  bound  together 
in  a  consuming  passion  to  do  the  world  good." 
.  .  .  She  was  not  born  in  the  womb  of  any 
tradition.  She  was  born  out  of  the  will  of  God 
in  Christ  Jesus,  born  out  of  His  great  creative 
prayer  into  which  He  poured  His  very  life  and 
during  which  He  shed  His  very  blood.  "  That 
they  all  might  be  one  as  Thou  Father  art  in  Me, 
and  I  in  Thee,  that  they  also  may  be  in  us,  that 
the  world  may  believe  that  Thou  didst  send 
Me." 

But  I  am  not  discouraged,  and  I  do  not  know 
that  anything  has  pleased  me  more  with  the 
work  on  the  Foreign  Field  than  to  learn  that 
we  are  moving  there  in  the  right  direction. 
You  know  we  have  an  Evangelical  Union  of 
all  the  churches  in  the  Philippines.  In  China, 
too,  there  has  been  splendid  progress.  While 
of  course  you  are  aware  of  the  fact  that  in 
[196] 


Scotchmen    and    Dutchmen 

Japan  our  Keformed  and  Presbyterian  Churches 
have  united  in  one  body  under  the  name  "  The 
Church  of  Christ  in  Japan."  If  Scotchmen 
and  Dutchmen  can  work  together  harmoniously 
in  the  Orient,  I  don't  for  the  life  of  me  see  why 
they  can't  do  the  same  thing  in  the  Occident. 
Think  of  the  money  saved.  That  alone,  it  seems 
to  me,  and  it  is  the  very  lowest  argument  one 
could  cite,  that  alone  it  would  seem  ought  to 
be  decisive.  Some  people  are  so  afraid  that 
when  Church  Unity  is  consummated  the  form 
of  worship  will  be  monotonous.  But  I  can  see 
no  reason  why  one  great  American  Church 
should  not  be  able  to  give  each  local  organiza- 
tion the  fullest  freedom  of  liturgy  and  service. 
If  a  little  company  can  find  God  more  easily 
through  a  ritual,  why,  I  would  give  them  all 
the  ritual  they  want.  It  is  all  one  land  and 
one  faith  and  one  Lord  and  one  fellowship. 
And  for  that  matter  do  we  not  all  differ  any- 
way in  our  own  individual  connections  ? 
Do  all  Presbyterians  think  alike?  Do  all 
Anglicans  think  alike  ?  I  will  venture  to  say 
that  there  are  as  great  differences  of  belief  in 
any  one  congregation  as  in  the  whole  composite 
[197] 


Letters    to    Edward 


body.  Men  always  begin  to  differ  when  they 
begin  to  think.  I  see  that  Dr.  van  Dyke  has 
just  blocked  out  a  simple  statement  on  which 
all  Protestant  Christendom  might  well  join 
hands.  Here  it  is.  I  like  it  for  its  brevity. 

1.  God,  our  Father  in  heaven. 

2.  Jesus  Christ,  the  Light  of  the  world,  our 
Lord  and  Saviour  from  sin  and  death. 

3.  The  Bible,  our  divine  guide  to  life  and 
immortality.     I  think  that  is  all  right.     Why 
could  we  not  all  work  together  on  this  modus 
vivendi  ? 

I  was  reading  recently  the  life  of  Charles 
Kingsley.  He  tells  a  story  in  it  of  Archbishop 
Faber.  You  know  Kingsley  and  Faber  were 
great  friends  and  often  visited  each  other.  On 
one  of  these  visits  Kingsley  said  to  the  Arch- 
bishop, "  Faber,  I  want  you  to  talk  to  our 
young  people  to-night."  "  Oh,"  he  said,  "  I 
cannot ;  you  do  not  want  a  Catholic  to  talk  to 
your  young  people."  "Yes,  I  do,"  Kingsley 
replied.  Well,  they  went  into  the  meeting  and 
Faber  talked  to  a  class  of  young  communicants 
for  twenty-three  minutes  on  the  different  names 
of  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ.  And  Kingsley,  speak- 
[198] 


Archbishop  Faber  and  Kingsley 

ing  about  it  afterwards,  says,  "  It  was  the  last 
time  I  ever  saw  Faber,"  and  he  adds  these 
words,  "  He  was  the  greatest  lover  of  the  Lord 
Jesus  that  I  have  ever  known,"  Wasn't  that 
beautiful  ?  And  of  a  Catholic ! 

But  I  am  getting  sleepy  and  perhaps  my 
letter  sounds  that  way.  But  I  am  not  going 
to  make  any  corrections  or  revisions.  Good- 
bye. Sweet  sleep, 

And  believe  me 

Faithfully  yours, 

MlLCOLUMBUS. 


[199] 


Letters    to    Edward 


November  25,  1912. 
MY  DEAR  EDWARD  : 

This  is  blue  Monday,  and  I  am  feeling  a 
little  off.  I  spent  yesterday  at  Yale,  preached 
in  the  University  chapel  in  the  morning,  and 
addressed  the  Christian  Association  in  the 
evening. 

My  morning  effort  was  a  good  deal  of  a 
fizzle,  because  I  pitched  my  voice  too  high  at 
the  start.  When  the  Dean  led  me  on  to  the 
pulpit  of  the  big  auditorium  I  found  myself 
facing  eighteen  hundred  or  two  thousand  young 
restless  fellows,  and  the  ones  in  the  rear  seemed 
so  far  away  I  felt  as  if  it  would  be  necessary 
to  talk  louder  than  usual,  and  of  course  with 
the  usual  result.  What  a  mistake  a  speaker 
makes  when  he  feels  he  must  get  above  his 
ordinary  natural  conversational  tone.  Shout- 
ing may  be  tolerable  for  a  few  minutes,  but 
half  an  hour  of  it  becomes  terribly  tiresome — 
to  the  audience  I  mean. 

And  the  worst  of  it  is  when  one  begins  high, 
it  is  next  to  impossible  to  come  down  to  a  lower 
[  200] 


At    Yale    University 

level.  I  had  not  been  speaking  five  minutes 
when  I  realized  that  I  had  made  a  false  start, 
but  do  what  I  would  I  could  not  get  down. 
And  so  I  had  to  keep  it  up  to  the  finish. 

Well,  it's  all  over  now  anyway,  and  I  am  not 
going  to  worry  over  it.  I  did  the  best  I  could, 
but  I  learned  a  good  lesson,  and  it  is  this  :  the 
next  time  I  am  invited  to  speak  in  one  of  these 
great  big  halls  of  doubtful  acoustics,  I  will  go  a 
day  earlier  and  practice  for  a  while  on  the  janitor. 

And,  by  the  way,  this  college  preaching  is 
pretty  thankless  work  anyway.  The  boys 
treated  me  all  right,  but  then,  you  see,  I  kept 
safely  within  the  enclosure.  I  knew  well  how 
trespassing  was  forbidden.  I  was  only  too  well 
aware  of  the  fact  that  I  was  not  spellbinding 
them,  but  I  tell  you,  Edward,  in  a  college  pul- 
pit, brevity  covers  a  multitude  of  sins. 

I  asked  the  Dean  as  we  were  putting  on  our 
robes  how  long  they  would  listen  to  me,  and 
hardly  was  the  question  out  of  my  mouth  when 
I  realized  what  a  foolish  question  it  was. 

He  smiled  graciously,  and  said,  "  Well, 
twenty-five  minutes  is  better  than  half  an 
hour." 

[201] 


Letters    to    Edward 


"  And  is  twenty  better  than  twenty-five  ?  " 
I  ventured,  half -tremblingly. 

He  laughed  as  he  added,  "  "Well,  doctor,  the 
sermon  has  a  good  deal  to  do  with  it." 

Indeed,  Edward,  in  some  of  the  colleges  the 
treatment  the  poor  dominie  gets  is  little  short 
of  ungracious.  Some  of  the  men,  I  know,  and 
they  are  among  our  strongest  men  too,  have 
cut  out  college  preaching  altogether.  They 
say  that  very  little  good  comes  of  it,  especially 
when  attendance  is  compulsory.  One  of  my 
friends  here  in  New  York  never  goes  any  more. 
He  declines  every  invitation.  He  says  that 
each  institution  ought  to  have  its  own  per- 
manent chaplain.  He  was  telling  me  the  other 
day  of  a  visit  he  made  a  few  years  ago  to — 
well,  we  will  say  Dartmouth.  (I  suppose  I 
had  better  make  it  perfectly  clear  that  Dart- 
mouth was  not  the  institution  in  question, 
but  I  will  say  Dartmouth  on  your  account.  I 
know  you  are  a  little  sensitive  on  this  score, 
and  anyway  Dartmouth  will  do  as  well.)  He 
found  in  the  course  of  his  sermon  that  they 
were  giving  him  but  a  very  remote  and  listless 
attention.  Some  were  reading  books,  some 
[202  ] 


College    Preaching 


were  memorizing  their  notes,  some  were  draw- 
ing geometrical  figures,  some  were  snoozing, 
some  were  doing  worse  things. 

Stopping  in  the  middle  of  a  paragraph,  he 
said  quietly,  "What's  the  matter  with  you 
Dartmouth  fellows  anyhow  ?  Why,  I  have  six 
old  Dartmouth  men  in  my  church,  and  spiri- 
tually not  one  of  them  is  worth  shucks." 

He  said  the  attention  improved  at  once. 

And  that  reminds  me  of  a  story  they  tell  of 

our  old  friend  P .  Brevity,  as  we  know,  is 

not  one  of  his  gifts,  but  irony  is.  Well,  any- 
way, this  particular  Sunday  morning  the  old 
man  was  more  interminable  than  usual.  And 
the  boys  began  to  cough  and  some  commenced 
to  scrape  their  feet  and  some  to  scrape  their 
throats  till  the  noise  and  the  hacking  became 
embarrassingly  annoying.  Pausing  rather  ab- 
ruptly, the  old  veteran  said,  "  Let  us  pray,"  in 
the  course  of  his  prayer  making  use  of  these 
words,  "  Oh,  Lord,  be  very  gracious  unto  those 
who  seem  to  be  laboring  under  the  weight  of 
impaired  health  this  morning." 

I  had  a  long  chat  with  G the  other  day 

at  the  University  Club.  As  you  know,  he 
[203] 


Letters    to    Edward 


spends  most  of  his  time  going  around  among 
the  colleges.  I  suppose  there  is  not  a  large  in- 
stitution here  in  the  East  that  he  does  not  visit 
every  winter,  presenting  chiefly  the  claims  of 
the  ministry.  He  tells  me  that  in  Cornell  this 
past  winter  he  met  only  one  man  who  is  study- 
ing for  the  church.  In  Harvard  there  are  six. 
1  have  forgotten  how  many  he  said  there  were 
in  Yale,  but  I  know  the  number  surprised  me 
with  how  small  it  was.  I  declare,  Edward, 
the  contribution  of  the  great  University  to  our 
pulpits  is  almost  negligible.  The  longer  I  live 
the  more  I  am  coming  to  believe  in  the  smaller 
college.  It  Avould  seem  to  be  true  that  colleges, 
like  cities,  grow  godless  as  they  grow  big. 
Ever  faithfully  yours, 
MILCOLUMBUS. 


[204] 


Eliot's    Five-Foot    Shelf 


December  1,  1912. 
MY  DEAR  EDWARD  : 

I  spent  all  the  afternoon  in  the  city  library 
and  what  a  bewildering  place  it  is!  Books, 
books,  books,  nothing  but  books  !  I  asked  the 
superintendent,  who  happens  to  be  a  member  of 
our  church,  how  many  there  are  and  he  said, 
"  About  two  million."  I  am  never  so  overpow- 
ered with  a  feeling  of  the  density  of  my  own 
ignorance  as  when  I  visit  this  wonderful  place. 
It  really  oppresses  me  as  I  tiptoe  through  the 
alcoves.  I  declare  when  I  am  told  that  150,000 
new  volumes  are  published  every  year,  and 
then  when  I  pause  and  reflect  that  the  average 
man  has  not  the  time  to  read  more  than  per- 
haps one  or  two  a  week,  I  really  do  not  wonder 
that  so  many  give  up  in  despair. 

A  class  of  young  men  came  to  me  the  other 
day  and  asked  me  what  books  I  would  advise 
them  to  read.  They  wanted  me  to  make  out  a 
list  for  them.  "Well,  I  consulted  Eliot's  famous 
shelf  and  I  read  what  Frederic  Harrison  had  to 
say  and  then  I  glanced  over  Comte's  library  of 
[205] 


Letters    to    Edward 


popular  instruction,  and  then  Andrew  Lang's 
list  and  W.  T.  Stead's  and  I  know  not  how 
many  more,  and  when  I  was  through  I  was 
about  as  bewildered  as  they  were. 

"  Tell  us  what  to  read,"  the  young  men  said, 
and  I  found  the  voices  answering  about  as  con- 
fusing as  the  shouts  of  hackmen  at  the  depots 
of  some  of  our  seaside  resorts.  Read  the  books 
that  interest  you,  one  replied.  Read  the 
eternal  works  of  genius,  said  another,  whether 
they  interest  you  or  not,  and  so  cultivate  a 
taste  for  the  tried  and  proven.  Aye,  but  the 
trouble  with  this,  I  could  not  help  thinking,  is 
that  there  are  so  many  of  them  that  one  needs 
a  second  process  of  elimination  and  maybe  a 
third  and  a  fourth.  Form  a  habit  of  reading, 
another  cried ;  do  not  mind  what  you  read ;  the 
reading  of  better  books  will  come  when  you 
have  a  habit  of  reading  the  inferior. 

Read  books  that  make  you  think,  a  fourth 
argued.  Always  be  asking  yourself  the  ques- 
tion— Is  this  book  making  me  think  ?  Is  it 
quickening  my  mind  and  stimulating  my 
powers  of  thought?  If  not,  lay  it  down.  I 
believe  it  was  Emerson  who  on  one  occasion 
[206] 


Mr.    Edison    On    Books 

advised  the  students  of  Harvard  never  to  read 
a  book  till  it  was  at  least  a  year  old.  While 
Herbert  Spencer  and  the  poet  Wordsworth,  and 
Mr.  Edison  said  something  like  this,  "  If  I  were 
you  I  would  read  very  little ;  books  are  only 
playthings  to  keep  you  from  thinking.  Just 
go  into  the  laboratory  and  experiment,  go  out 
into  the  hills  and  commune,  go  into  your  study 
and  philosophize  and  create  and  construct."  I 
see  that  the  only  volume  in  the  den  of  your  late 
friend  Joaquin  Miller  was  a  Bible.  And  so  it 
goes. 

Now,  with  such  a  tangle,  is  it  any  wonder 
that  the  average  young  fellow  is  puzzled  ?  He 
is  lost  in  a  forest  of  folios  and  the  guides  are 
all  recommending  their  specialties.  And  he 
exclaims  almost  in  despair,  "To  whom  shall 
I  go?" 

Well,  I  said  to  them,  "  Young  men,  if  I  were 
you  I  would  first  of  all  read  a  lot  of  poetry." 
Poetry  we  need  as  a  balance  wheel  if  for  no 
other  reason — our  life  is  so  full  of  prose.  We 
may  not  have  to  study  political  economy  in 
our  e  very-day  life,  but  we  all  have  to  wrestle 
with  household  economy  and  there  is  not  much 
[20T] 


Letters    to    Edward 


poetry  in  that  department.  Doesn't  it  some- 
times strike  you,  Edward,  the  foolish  way  we 
were  taught  history  in  school  ?  It  was  mostly 
battles  and  generals  and  figures  and  dates. 
"Why  should  a  lad  be  compelled  to  burden  his 
little  brain  with  useless  dates,  anyway  ?  What 
earthly  difference  does  it  make  now  whether 
the  battle  of  Kilecrankie  was  1689  or  1699? 
Who  cares  at  this  late  hour  whether  Henry  the 
Eighth  had  six  wives  or  sixteen  ?  What  does 
it  matter  whether  the  name  of  one  of  them  was 
Jane  Seymour  or  Ann  Seymour  ?  Yet  I  well 
remember  a  teacher's  examination  I  tried  to 
pass  and  one  of  the  questions  was,  "  Name  the 
six  wives  of  Henry  the  Eighth."  I  remember 
it  particularly  because  of  the  fact  that  I  got 
the  names  tangled.  There  is  a  way  to  study 
history  that  may  be  made  poetic  but  how  few 
teachers  have  mastered  it !  How  few  teachers 
inspire!  How  few  bring  out  the  life  of  the 
passage.  They  can  interpret  its  meaning ;  they 
cannot  communicate  its  life.  They  are  exegetes. 
They  miss  the  soul  of  the  poet.  In  college  we 
read  the  "  Lady  of  the  Lake,"  but  it  was  mostly 
a  matter  of  hunting  for  adjectives  and  verbs  and 
[208] 


Reading    Poetry 

adverbs.  We  parsed  the  great  epic  to  death. 
I  think  the  first  thing  to  impress  upon  young 
people  in  recommending  poetry  is  to  try  to  get 
them  to  read  it  as  a  spiritual  discipline.  There 
are  many  who  are  coming  to  feel  that 
Mr.  Noyes  is  right  when  he  says  that  we  are 
on  the  threshold  of  a  great  poetical  renaissance. 
We  are  swinging  back  from  the  scientific  ex- 
treme. Yesterday  I  went  down  to  some  ex- 
ercises at  the  Spence  school.  Talcott  Williams 
gave  the  address  and  I  was  especially  interested 
in  a  story  he  told  which  I  had  never  heard  be- 
fore. It  was  the  story  of  a  visit  that  Mary 
Garden  once  paid  to  Longfellow.  She  went  to 
the  poet  when  quite  a  young  girl  starting  out 
in  her  career,  and  she  said  to  him  that  her 
hours  were  so  largely  taken  up  with  rehearsals, 
etc.,  etc.,  that  she  had  little  or  no  time  left  for 
reading,  and  asking  him  what  advice  he  would 
give  her  to  help  her  attain  some  little  degree 
of  culture.  And  I  was  interested  in  the  an- 
swer the  good  man  gave  her,  viz.,  to  spend 
fifteen  minutes  each  day  reading  some  great 
poem. 

Then  for  myself  I  must  say  I  like  the  essay. 
[209] 


Letters    to    Edward 


It  is  for  me,  after  poetry,  the  most  rewarding. 
There  is  no  prose  so  stimulating  as  the  essay, 
none  so  suggestive.  It  is  the  torch  that  lights 
the  fire.  I  never  tire  of  Addison  and  Steele 
and  Bacon  and  Burke.  Then  I  love  Montaigne. 
Every  thoughtful  student,  it  seems  to  me, 
should  pay  a  visit  regularly  to  the  Frenchman 
and  drink  deeply  of  this  crystal  fountain.  One 
particularly  convenient  fact  about  the  essay  is 
that  we  can  begin  almost  anywhere.  You  can 
open  your  Lamb  or  your  Hazlitt  at  page  fifty 
or  page  one  hundred  and  fifty  and  not  miss 
connection.  This  is  not  possible  as  a  rule  with 
the  story  or  the  poem  or  the  history  ;  and  in 
these  days  of  pressure  and  crowding  calls,  when 
the  spare  moment  is  so  precious,  it  is  certainly 
a  most  valuable  asset.  "  Go  in  anywhere,"  the 
general  said  to  one  of  his  privates ;  "  there  is 
good  fighting  all  along  the  line."  And  so  it  is 
with  the  essay ;  the  browsing  is  good  any- 
where. 

Then  I  told  the  class  that  I  considered  the 

most  important  all  round  book  for  young  men 

to  be  the  biography.     Some  one  says  that  we 

all  of  us,  young  and   old,  ought  to  make  a 

[210] 


The    Essay    and   the    Biography 

practice  of  reading  one  good  biography  a  year. 
And  I  fully  believe  it,  only  I  would  venture  to 
amend  the  statement  by  saying  one  a  month. 
Dozens  of  young  men  and  women  could  be 
counted  and  cited  who  could  date  the  turning 
point  in  their  lives  to  the  reading  of  some 
famous  biography.  If  a  young  man  is  prepar- 
ing to  enter  the  legal  profession,  where  can  he 
get  more  real  inspiration  than  by  reading  the 
life  of  Blackstone  or  John  Marshall  ?  If  his 
leanings  are  towards  medicine,  what  can 
surpass  Sir  James  Simpson  or  Abercrombie  ? 
Or  if  he  is  looking  towards  a  parliamentary 
career,  what  a  stimulus  would  be  the  life  of 
Gladstone  or  John  Bright !  Or  if  he  is  minis- 
terially inclined,  what  a  tonic  is  the  life  of 
Phillips  Brooks  or  Parker  or  MacLaren  !  Then 
that  noble  array  of  Christian  missionaries ! 
Where  in  the  whole  field  of  fiction  is  there  a 
story  as  exciting  as  the  life  of  James  Chalmers 
of  New  Guinea?  What  novelist  has  ever 
painted  a  career  like  the  life  of  James  Gilmour 
of  Mongolia  ?  What  writer  of  romance  living 
or  dead  in  any  language  has  ever  done  any- 
thing as  thrilling  as  the  career  of  David  Living- 
[211] 


Letters    to    Edward 


stoiie  ?  And  so  I  told  the  boys  to  read  weekly 
a  chapter  of  the  life  of  some  true  soldier  of  the 
Cross.  Let  it  be  part,  I  urged,  of  the  Sabbath 
program.  It  will  put  iron,  I  said,  into  your 
blood  and  wine  into  your  step  and  virtue  into 
your  hearts.  What,  after  all,  is  the  Bible  but 
a  series  of  great  faithful  biographies  ?  "  Oh, 
how  I  love  Thy  law ;  it  is  my  meditation  all  the 
day."  But  won't  you  please  send  me  a  list, 
Edward,  and  help  me  out  ?  The  young  fellows 
are  mostly  business  young  men,  in  fact, 
mostly  clerks.  I  shall  be  greatly  and  heartily 
obliged. 

Ever  faithfully  yours, 

MlLCOLUMBUS. 


[212] 


Bad    News 


December  28, 
MY  DEAR  EDWARD  : 

Your  letter  has  worried  me  greatly  and 
I  am  certainly  cast  down  and  blue.  The  day 
to  begin  with  is  cheerless  and  gloomy.  A 
thick  heavy  cloud  overlaps  the  city,  and  I  have 
been  all  the  morning  sitting  by  the  grate  and 
trying  to  keep  the  chill  away.  As  I  look  out 
of  my  window  into  the  park  I  notice  that  the 
leaves  are  mostly  fallen,  and  those  that  are  left 
are  in  different  stages  of  decay.  There  is  a  row 
of  elms  along  the  avenue  and  they  are  quite 
wintry-like  ;  the  butternut  also  is  bare  and  the 
linden.  I  can  see  a  few  dry  crumpled  leaves 
still  clinging  to  the  maple,  but  the  forsythia  is 
comparatively  fresh  and  the  weeping  willow 
seems  loth  to  give  up  its  glory.  The  grass 
for  the  most  part  is  a  sort  of  grayish  green. 
The  sky  is  not  uniformly  overcast  but  is 
covered  with  patches,  some  darker,  some 
lighter,  and  there  is  a  raw  dampness  in  the 
air. 

Then  when  your  letter  came  it  completed  the 
[213] 


Letters    to    Edward 


forlornness.  I  have  felt  during  the  past  few- 
months  that  our  separation  has  brought  us 
closer  together.  I  only  wish  now  that  these 
dividing  mountains  and  prairies  might  be  re- 
moved and  cast  into  the  sea.  I  would  give 
anything  if  I  could  only  fly  and  be  with  you 
to-night.  "  Oh,  that  I  had  wings  like  a  dove  !  " 
Somehow  or  other  I  have  had  an  inkling  of 
late  that  you  were  not  so  well.  I  do  not  know 
what  gave  it  to  me ;  I  suppose  because  you 
have  not  been  writing  as  often  nor  as  fully 
about  yourself,  but  then  again  I  would  put  it 
all  aside  as  being  due  to  the  other  happi- 
ness that  has  come  into  your  life.  And  now 
it  seems  my  fears  were  true.  Tell  me,  have 
you  had  more  than  one  hemorrhage,  and 
how  severe  was  it  ?  You  are  so  reticent  about 
yourself  and  it  keeps  me  so  in  suspense.  You 
know  hemorrhages  are  oftentimes  beneficial; 
they  not  infrequently  carry  the  trouble  away. 
I  have  known  of  many  cases  who  were  helped 
by  them.  So  you  must  not  allow  yourself  to 
get  dejected,  because  it  may  be  a  blessing.  Do 
you  think  if  I  were  to  go  west  next  month  you 
could  arrange  to  get  off  and  come  with  me  out 
[214] 


Bad    News 

onto  the  desert  ?  I  feel  sure  I  could  manage  it, 
and  I  am  just  as  positive  as  it  is  possible  to  be 
that  it  would  do  you  good.  "We  could  hire  a 
couple  of  ponies  and  spend  the  whole  month  on 
horseback.  Then  we  will  take  a  first-rate  cook 
along  with  us  and  a  camping  outfit,  and  live 
quite  luxuriously  in  the  open.  The  whole  idea 
can  be  carried  out  for  $1,000.00.  I  know  where 
to  go  and  how  to  make  all  arrangements.  I 
have  a  friend  in  Flagstaff — a  practicing  physi- 
cian there — who  would  attend  to  everything 
for  us  and  all  that  you  would  need  to  do  would 
be  to  meet  us  there.  Now,  my  dear  boy,  I  men- 
tioned this  to  you  once  before,  but  now  I  want 
to  go  myself.  The  more  I  think  of  it  the  more 
it  grows  on  me.  If  you  feel  strong  enough  to 
get  away,  just  wire  me  immediately  on  receipt 
of  this  and  I  will  not  waste  a  moment.  Mean- 
time I  will  be  looking  round  for  a  tentative 
supply.  Now,  Edward,  if  you  do  this  you  can 
be  well.  I  am  confident  of  it.  Something 
tells  me  so.  I  have  seen  it  work.  It  is  the 
only  thing  for  your  trouble,  and  you  are 
young  and  hopeful  and  everything  is  in  your 
favor.  So  please  do  not  say  no,  but  brace 
[215] 


Letters    to    Edward 


up,  cheer  up,  and  come.     "We  can  have  a  great 
time. 

Oh,  Edward,  how  young  and  light  and  bright 
and  buoyant  it  would  make  me  to  meet  you 
out  there.  I  have  been  reading  the  biography 
of  Mark  Rutherford.  He  tells  us  in  one  place 
of  his  lifelong  desire  and  hope  for  a  friend 
to  whom  he  could  pour  out  his  deepest  and 
his  saddest  thoughts.  "With  wistful  eyes  he 
searched  for  years  for  some  one  who  could  un- 
derstand him,  and  to  whom  he  could  unlock 
and  unburden  his  soul.  But  the  friend  never 
appeared  and  Rutherford  became  moody  and 
sullen  and  glum.  Well,  my  dear  boy,  I  have 
always  felt  that  I  could  unfold  to  you  my  in- 
most feelings.  I  never  have  been  able  to  tell 
you  just  how  much  I  have  missed  you.  Our 
separation  has  been  a  cross  to  me!  It  has 
been  a  real  poignant  pain.  And  now  that  you 
are  so  far  away,  and  maybe  need  me,  is  an  in- 
expressible hardship.  How  strange  and  past 
finding  out  are  the  ways  of  Providence !  You 
are  so  young  and  gifted  !  But  it's  all  for  train- 
ing, no  doubt ;  that  is  what  we  are  here  for,  is 
it  not  ?  So  let  us  play  the  man. 
[216] 


Maltbie    Babcock 


We  are  not  here  to  whimper,  whiiie,  to  weep,  to 

While  away  the  hours ; 

Complaint's  for  cowards ; 
Courage  delights  to  dream,  to  dare,  to  do,  to 

Demonstrate  its  powers. 

As  Babcock  says,  "  Plough  ahead  as  a  steamer 
does,  rough  or  smooth,  fine  or  shine.  To  carry 
your  cargo  and  make  port  is  the  point."  And 
in  another  place  he  adds,  "  Perhaps  the  richest 
of  God's  earthly  gifts  is  an  accepted  sorrow. 
So  do  not  lose  this  one.  Say  '  Speak,  Lord,  Thy 
servant  heareth '  and  He  will  tell  you  some 
things  worth  all  it  costs  to  hear  them.  I  can- 
not say  what  they  will  be,  but  by  and  by  you 
will  know,  and  then  you  will  be  more  conse- 
crated to  the  good  you  can  do." 

What  a  wonderful  victory  one  gains  when  he 
comes  to  know  that  the  Master  has  him  by  the 
hand  and  is  leading  him.  The  night  is  dark 
but  he  can  feel  that  gentle  pressure  and  he  can 
hear  that  soft  sweet  whisper,  "  Follow  Me." 
Then  we  know  that  we  are  safe,  that  no  harm 
can  happen  to  us,  that  we  cannot  possibly  go 
astray  since  He  knows  every  turn  of  the  road, 
and  anyway  the  morning  is  not  far  distant. 
"  The  path  of  the  just  is  as  the  dawning  light 
[217] 


Letters    to    Edward 


that  shineth  more  and  more  unto  the  perfect 
day."  I  sometimes  think  as  the  night  wears 
away,  and  the  first  streaks  of  dawn  begin  to 
appear,  how  glorious  will  be  that  first  glimpse 
of  our  Leader  whom  having  not  seen  we  love. 
And  now  I  am  going  to  pray  for  you,  my  true, 
brave  friend,  that  you  may  receive  a  wonderful 
blessing  and  that  we  both  may  be  wisely  and 
divinely  guided.  I  commit  you  to  the  great 
and  kindly  heart  of  our  loving  Father.  He 
will  do  what  is  best.  He  will  fill  us  with  His 
own  rich  and  tranquil  peace.  So  let  us  both 
lean  on  the  arm  that  is  unfailing.  Wire  me  at 
once,  and  with  my  heart's  deepest  love,  believe 
me 

Ever  affectionately  yours, 

MILCOLUMBUS, 


[218] 


"For    All    the    Saints 


December  30,  1912. 

DEAR  Miss 

I  drop  you  this  line  to  tell  you  how 
sorely  crushed  I  am.  I  know  a  little  how  you 
feel  because  I  am  so  broken-hearted  myself. 
When  the  "Western  Union  boy  came  to  my  door 
yesterday  I  was  just  putting  on  my  overcoat  to 
go  over  to  the  seminary  and  give  a  noon-hour 
talk  to  the  boys  there,  but  I  suspicioned  at  once 
what  the  message  meant — and  alas,  alas,  my 
fears  were  true!  It  is  only  the  day  before 
yesterday  that  I  wrote  him  a  letter  trying  to 
persuade  him  to  come  out  with  me  for  a  month's 
holiday  on  the  desert,  and  now  the  dear  boy  is 
off  to  a  sunnier  clime.  I  cannot  realize  it.  I 
am  simply  stunned.  Poor  Edward,  he  was  the 
noblest,  sweetest,  purest,  most  unselfish  spirit 
I  have  ever  known.  I  wish  I  were  a  little 
nearer  to  you  to  tell  you  how  much  I  loved  him, 
and  to  try  and  comfort  you  in  your  keen  and 
searching  sorrow.  He  had  been  so  happy  since 
the  engagement  and  his  hopes  so  bright.  He 
loved  you  as  only  a  pure  and  stainless  soul  can 
[219] 


Letters    to    Edward 


love — with  a  devotion  that  was  well-nigh  wor- 
ship. Not  one  of  his  letters  but  has  some 
bright  saying  of  yours,  or  some  quick  repartee, 
or  some  witticism,  or  some  tender  and  appre- 
ciative and  ardent  line.  How  warm  his  nature 
was,  how  sympathetic,  how  thoughtful,  how 
whole-hearted  !  Ah,  me,  how  he  could  love ! 
And  is  not  that  one  of  the  signs  of  bigness  ? 
Little  people  are  not  capable  of  a  great  affec- 
tion. I  can  hardly  wait  to  hear  the  story  of 
his  last  illness.  You  know,  do  what  I  would,  I 
could  not  get  him  to  tell  me  about  himself.  He 
would  write  a  long  letter  and  talk  about  almost 
everything  under  the  sun,  but  about  the  very 
thing  I  was  most  anxious  about— scarcely  a 
line.  And  so  I  am  in  the  dark.  Would  it  be 

asking  too  much,  dear  Miss ,  if  I  were  to 

express  the  wish  that  you  write  and  tell  me  all  ? 
I  am  longing  so  to  hear,  and  nobody,  it  seems, 
can  relate  the  very  things  I  would  like  most  to 
know  but  yourself.  I  wish  I  could  make  my 
pen  tell  my  inmost  thoughts.  I  wish  I  could 
make  it  convey  to  you  what  a  rare  and  unusual 
man  Edward  was.  He  was  one  in  a  million. 
We  have  known  each  other  intimately  the  last 
[220] 


"For    All    the    Saints 

twelve  years.  He  was  quite  a  few  landmarks 
my  junior,  but  the  difference  in  our  ages  did 
not  hinder  our  being  the  closest  confidants.  I 
think  we  have  never  had  a  dispute  or  a  conten- 
tion in  all  these  months  of  intimacy,  no,  not 
even  a  misunderstanding.  There  was  never  the 
slightest  ripple  on  our  friendship.  He  had  the 
delightful  way  of  putting  the  best  construction 
on  an  act  and  looking  around  for  pleasant 
things,  and  always  trying  to  speak  a  nice  word  ; 
that  was  his  nature. 

And  then  he  was  so  gifted !  His  was  the 
brightest  (I  will  not  say  the  deepest),  but  I  will 
say  the  brightest  young  mind  I  have  ever  met. 
Of  course  you  know  he  was  the  first  man  in  his 

college  class  at ,  but  indeed  I  presume 

on  second  thought  that  you  do  not  know  this 
fact,  for  he  was  too  modest  ever  to  tell  you. 
You  might  have  lived  with  him  a  hundred 
years  and  never  have  found  it  out.  His  modesty 
was  almost  morbid.  I  used  to  tell  him  it  was 
a  sin,  that  he  did  not  have  a  right  appraise- 
ment of  his  own  powers  at  all.  He  was  so 
bashful  that  it  was  positively  painful  to  himself, 
and  oftentimes  laughable  to  us.  I  have  watched 
[221] 


Letters    to    Edward 


him  walk  on  to  the  pulpit  platform  with  his 
knees  shaking,  and  I  have  seen  him  sit  in  the 
pulpit  chair  and  try  at  the  last  moment  to  write 
a  notice  he  had  overlooked,  but  his  hand  was 
so  nervous  that  when  the  time  came  for  the  an- 
nouncements he  could  not  read  his  own  hand- 
writing. I  really  used  to  feel  sorry  for  him  till 
he  got  well  under  way.  I  have  recently  been 
reading  the  life  of  Henry  Drummond  by 
George  Adam  Smith,  and  all  the  while  I  could 
not  help  feeling  how  alike  he  was  to  the 
Scotch  professor.  He  was  a  man  of  the  Drum- 
mond type,  nurtured,  it  would  seem,  on  the 
thirteenth  chapter  of  First  Corinthians.  Cul- 
ture was  stamped  on  every  clause  of  his  nature. 
His  earnestness  was  so  contagious,  his  spirit  so 
winsome.  His  ideal  was  "  the  true,  the  beauti- 
ful and  the  good,"  and  it  flashed  and  shone  in 
every  glance  of  those  large  beautiful  blue  eyes 
of  his.  I  think,  in  a  word,  that  the  whole 
secret  of  Edward's  charm  was  that  he  was  a 
graduate  from  the  school  of  the  Master.  There 
was  nothing  harsh  or  severe  in  his  make-up. 
He  was  filled  to  overflowing  with  pity,  with 
tenderness,  with  forgiveness,  with  meekness, 
[222] 


"For    All    the    Saints 


with  mercy,  with  kindness,  with  consideration 
for  others.  And  yet  with  it  all  there  was  a 
mingling  of  the  heroic.  He  was  courageous, 
intrepid,  fearless,  indomitable.  In  pain  and 
disappointment  and  set-back  and  throw-down 
he  never  flinched.  Truly  he  made  a  gallant 
fight  but  the  wind  was  too  raw,  the  flower  too 
frail,  and  it  fell  early  in  the  morning.  But  not 
to  defeat  did  it  fall,  to  victory  rather,  to  full- 
ness, to  completeness,  to  even  greater  beauty, 
to  growth,  to  maturity,  to  glory.  Down  here 
the  fragrance  and  sweetness  will  linger  for  a 
long  time,  but  yonder  could  we  but  walk  for  a 
little  with  the  Master  through  His  garden,  ho \v 
wondrous  fair  would  be  the  sight !  How  glad 
would  be  our  astonished  eyes !  How  our 
hearts  would  rejoice ! 

And  so,  my  dear  Miss  ,  I  am  writing 

you  out  of  a  heart  bursting  with  grief  because 
I  know  how  your  own  poor  desolate  soul  is 
aching.  And  remember  too  that  there  are  hun- 
dreds and  thousands  weeping  with  you,  for  he 
was  everybody's  friend.  I  must  drop  a  line  at 
once  to  his  dear  old  mother.  How  she  will 
need  our  prayers  !  Edward  was  the  idol  of  her 
[  223  ] 


Letters    to    Edward 


heart.  But  what  a  wonderful  gift  she  gave  to 
the  world !  How  happy  she  must  be  even  in 
this  hour  of  her  unspeakable  agony  and  loneli- 
ness !  To  train  up  and  give  to  the  Church  such 
a  man,  what  with  it  can  compare  ?  But  she  is 
a  remarkable  woman,  as  rare  in  her  way  as  her 
son  was  in  his.  You  have  never  seen  her  but 
some  day  you  will,  and  when  you  do  you  will 
understand  a  whole  lot  of  Edward's  power  and 
grace.  And  now,  my  dear  friend,  I  must  close. 
I  will  write  you  again  in  the  course  of  a  few 
days.  Remember  I  am  thinking  of  you  always, 
and  if  ever  there  is  anything  I  can  do  for  you, 
you  know  how  happy  it  would  make  me  to  be 
told  of  it.  Be  brave  in  this  your  hour  of  pain. 
Kemember  if  we  suffer  with  Him  we  shall  also 
reign  with  Him.  "  Wait  quietly  for  the  salva- 
tion of  our  God."  Try  hard  to  say  "  Even  so, 
Father,  for  so  it  seemeth  good  in  Thy  sight,"  and 
always  think  of  me,  will  you  not,  as  a  real 
friend.  For  Edward's  sake, 

Ever  faithfully  yours, 

MlLOOLUMBUS. 

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